


The Best Proof of Love is Trust

by dragonofdispair, ladydragon76



Series: Trust [1]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Post War, Angst, BDSM, Blurr doesn’t know Ricochet is Jazz’s twin, Chasing and Catching, Collars, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Kink Negotiation, Love Triangles, M/M, Matchmaking, Painplay, Pining, Romance, Safewords, Soooo many love triangles, Transformers Plug and Play Sexual Interfacing, Transformers Spark Sexual Interfacing, Transformers Tactile Sexual Interfacing, idiot robots in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:35:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 47,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25320994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonofdispair/pseuds/dragonofdispair, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladydragon76/pseuds/ladydragon76
Summary: Peace after so long at war is great. Sure there’s abandoned and wrecked buildings everywhere, unexploded mines, crashed ships, broken roads, and just a general sense of abandonment across Cybertron, but Blurr is making it work. He’s moving forward with his post-war plans and opening up his new Maccadam’s.And personally, he could not be better. He’sBlurr,racer and Wrecker. He can frag pretty much anyone he wants, but emotional investment isn’t really his thing. He’s definitely not looking for a mate.He’sabsolutely notlooking to play matchmaker for two lovestruck idiots who have been pining for each other the whole Primus-damned war!
Relationships: Blurr/Ricochet, Jazz/Prowl, Prowl/Ricochet
Series: Trust [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1916056
Comments: 259
Kudos: 152





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> When dragonofdispair invited me to mix my chocolate with her peanut butter, I couldn’t resist. This was a really fun project to work on, and I hope everyone enjoys reading it as much as I enjoyed helping write it! - LD76
> 
> By which she means that Prowl and Jazz are so gooey they get stuck in your craw, Ricochet is the asshole causing anaphylaxis, and Blurr is the saccharine romantic that makes your suffering worth the hospital bills. XD Happy reading~♪ ~dragon
> 
> Beta’d by [Rizobact](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rizobact/pseuds/Rizobact)

The best proof of love is trust. ~Joyce Brothers

.

◇─◇──◇──◇─◇ 

.

Restlessness chewed at Blurr’s spark. The low hum of his own engine was a familiar counter note to the harsher buzz of his tires on the occasionally uneven ground. Small rocks and other debris briefly stung the thick rubber before Blurr’s momentum kicked them to the side and out of his way. He was speeding, and if any of their burgeoning post-war law enforcement saw him he’d get in trouble. Which was why he was out  _ here _ , south of the blooming “downtown” part of Iacon, where most people were opening their businesses, bars, and shops. There weren’t really any highways outside the settled area. Yet. It was all still broken, bombed-out buildings, corroded and useless roads, then the true wilderness. 

Almost no one used this road after dark, but Blurr still had to go (relatively) slow in case of any stray insomniacs—

Oh! Like that one.

A black speedster alt with red and gold flames on the hood sped by going back toward town. Blurr didn’t recognize the mech, even if the flames looked like something Rodimus would have chosen. A thrill ran through Blurr.  _ He _ didn't recognize the mech, and new people were so nice to meet.

Blurr braked and let his aft end swing around in a U-turn. A moment later, he approached from behind and throttled down so he could drive at the same leisurely pace as this new mech.

“And what are you doing all alone so far out from the city?” Blurr asked as he pulled up alongside the other mech.

“Looking for someone to murder,” he growled in answer, which made Blurr laugh.

“You'd have to catch me first, and there's no way you can do that if I don't let you,” he said, weaving lightly back and forth over the lanes as he kept pace. “So, hi! I'm Blurr. And you are?” Blurr glided much closer, curious if the mech would flinch.

There was no flinch.

“Yeah, you look like a Blurr.” The mech's voice was smooth and familiarly accented.

_ ‘Look’ _ like a Blurr, was it? Now that was an exciting prospect. Did this mech not know who Blurr was? Had he not recognized him? The evening had just become much more interesting.

“That's the idea,” Blurr said, still slaloming back and forth, sometimes closer than others, testing for a reaction he was yet to receive. He was in perfect control though and wasn't going to cause a crash on purpose. He liked his current finish, thanks.

“So who are you? Your accent sounds familiar.” Not the voice or the frame  —  or that paint job, and Blurr was sure he'd remember that!  — but the accent. It wasn’t the neutral “Autobot” or “Decepticon” accents that MTOs, all created after the war had started, tended to have. This mech had come from  _ somewhere. _ Actually, it reminded Blurr of a certain mech he still sort of owed a punch in the face, though this mech did not have a musician’s deliberate use of tone and melody like Jazz did. Instead, he audibly leered.

“We~ll,” the mech drawled back, obviously and deliberately exaggerating the accent in question “Make me.”

“Make you what? Tell me your name?” Blurr asked incredulously. “With a fight?” He laughed. Pretty hard. “Maybe you lived under a rock or were an MTO,” hey, maybe he was and Blurr was just wrong and the accent an affectation, “but I'm Blurr, the former champion racer, now a bar-owning entrepreneur.” Even if the bar in question wasn’t open yet. “I don't make mechs tell me their name, sweetspark. If it's that embarrassing for you, I'll just give you a new one. Maybe Dust-Eater. Exhaust-Huffer?” He let his back tires spin up until they squealed against the road but didn't so much as jolt an inch forward as he continued to drive beside his companion. 

“Ain't dumb enough to race you,  _ sweetspark.”  _

Blurr heaved a sigh and sank on his wheels a bit. “No one is anymore. There are a few racers around, but they really aren't in my class, and trying to get a seeker to race doesn't work either. They don't like learning they're not faster than a ground-pounder, and word got around.” He went back to sliding side to side. “So really, what's your name? Or should I move on? It's not so late I can't find someone else to play with if you're not interested.”

The mech snickered. “Don't mind playing, sweetspark, but if you're looking for a challenge, you're better off fighting.”

“I think I've had my fill of fighting,” Blurr said, rather softly, but shifted easily and swerved almost close enough to make their plating kiss. The war was over, and Blurr — and many others — were sick to death of fighting. “What kind of play do you like?” he asked, tone silky. 

“Making a pretty little speedster scream my name sounds like fun,” the mech drawled.

Oh yeah. That was  _ way _ better than fighting! “That would be fun, wouldn't it?” Blurr said. “Sadly, I have no name other than … hm … Mud-Skipper to call out.”

The newly named Mud-Skipper swerved irritably; Blurr dodged and snickered. “Can’t catch— _Ack!”_ The mech transformed, his hand reaching out before the rest of him had done more than click the plating apart. Blurr saw it too late to compensate — momentum was still momentum — and his tires spun uselessly as his rear bumper was yanked up a few inches into the air.

“Hey now!” Blurr said, laughing as he transformed too. He stood just a head or so taller than Grabby-McGrabberson, who had let go of his bumper with a smirk. “No grab-aft until I get a look.” With his own smirk, Blurr circled his new playmate, looking him up and down. He looked a little bit like a black version of Jazz. Black with Rodimus’ flames on his chest. It was … only slightly less ridiculous than Blurr had thought it would be when he first spotted the mech. He still didn’t recognize him, and Blurr thought he knew most of the Autobots by sight. And that they knew him, both from racing before the war and those declassified Wreckers reports that had circulated as cheap adventure entertainment during it.

“Look  _ while _ I grab aft.” Grabby strode forward and made another grab.

Blurr danced out of the way, practically giggling as he dodged. “So what’s your name, really? Or should I just keep calling you, um, Dust-Dasher!”

The mech snorted. “I'm going to deck you if you don't hold still.” 

“I’d have to hold still for you to deck me,” Blurr said and skipped to the side out of reach again. Dush-Dasher snorted again, but Blurr stayed just out of reach, his optics glinting. “You're very good at dodging questions. How about this? If I let you touch me, will you give me your name?”

“Maybe.”

Blurr watched the mech move, laughing as he stayed out of reach before deciding to allow the barest brush of fingertips down his perfectly polished blue forearm. “Name?” he prompted, pointing to his arm where he'd been touched.

“Mud-Skipper,” the mech  _ lied. _ He stalked forward, and Blurr pranced out of reach. He darted around the mech, reaching out to grab a quick grope of his own (it was only fair), but the mech whirled. Quicker than expected but not quick enough to catch Blurr. 

He didn’t manage to grab the mech’s aft though. Shame. 

Blurr's grin widened as he stayed back, watching again, calculating before he made to dart by just close enough and slow enough that Mud-Skipper’s next grab should brush his chest.

He did not expect the mech to go for his wrist instead, and like with the attempted grope, Blurr reacted fast, but this time he couldn’t stop strong fingers from closing around the joint. He pulled back to escape the grip, but his playmate hadn’t even waited until he made contact before he was shifting his weight to yank Blurr off balance and then sweep his feet out from under him. 

They both landed with a  _ clang _ that drove the air from their frames. “Hi!” Mud-Skipper gasped out with a toothy smile.

Blurr blinked, then laughed where he lay, not bothering to struggle. “That's a touch.” He tapped his lip with a finger from his free hand, making a show of thinking about the question for a few long seconds. If the mech didn’t want to give out his name, that was alright. “Your place or mine?”

“Who says I'm gonna let you up now that I have you?”

“Oh, are we just going to frag in the middle of the street?” Blurr gave a haughty — if still teasing — sniff. “I think I deserve better than that.”

The mech licked a stripe up Blurr's chest then smeared a handful of dust there to make it stick in response.

Blurr snickered. “Okay then, Mud-Skipper. Or maybe … Yeah, you look more like a Sand-Crawler to me.” He reached up to ghost the fingers of his free hand over Sand-Crawler’s helm, which prompted a low, aggressive moan as his playmate pushed the sensor horn insistently into Blurr’s fingers. “Well. This won't be the worst place I've fragged.”

“Me neither.” The new name garnered no reaction at all.

Without letting him wiggle free, Blurr’s captor pressed his fingers into Blurr's shoulder to stroke part of his front axle. Blurr gasped and curled his fingers around Sand-Crawler’s sensor horn. “And if we get arrested for public indecency, hm … Gravel-Cruncher?” he asked, though he didn't really care as his vents were already beginning to cycle a little faster. It had been a while, but the thrill of fragging where he might get caught hadn’t lost its appeal. Blurr was definitely getting off on this — on being out where they could be seen.

“I'll blame you,” Gravel-Cruncher assured, seemingly not caring much himself.

“They'll believe you if they know anything about me at all,” Blurr said and twisted his captured wrist just a little, hinting that he wanted it free while massaging the horn with a firm, practiced touch. The mech went ahead and released Blurr's wrist, which was definitely a point in his favor. 

“Doesn't surprise me.”

Blurr delved clever, knowing fingers into his playmate’s seams to dance over cables and wiring. He knew a thing or two about Polyhexian frames, and Gravel-Cruncher's already felt familiar. “What do you like?” he purred, thumb rubbing the horn still as he dragged one foot up the mech’s leg. Blurr arched for the pleasure of rubbing his frame against Gravel's before curling his leg around the dark hip to help hold him in close.

“That's a good start,” he hummed. “Sensor horns. Tires. Shoulders. You?”

Blurr moved his hands to obey. “Backs of the helmwings — gently. Pipes on my sides. Thigh and abdominal vents once I'm revved. Leave the main sensor alone. That is  _ not _ a handle,” he added, going so far as to still all his touches and turn his face to meet Gravel's visor. That sensor was a hard no. Not with a stranger. Not when so many others had grabbed onto it in the past. It was sensitive and delicate, and he didn’t want to get it repaired after a lover twisted it.

“Sounds good.” The mech shifted his weight so that he could stroke Blurr's angled helm sensors. 

Blurr gave a purr and squirmed teasingly under the restraining weight, fingers moving over tires and curling over to brush the axle connections. He was rewarded with a low moan. “Like to hear you sound good.” He wriggled a bit more, chest arching up against Gravel’s. “See if we can draw some attention. Has to be someone out here to disturb.”

“Maybe. Ain't likely.” Which was sadly true. There wasn't a curfew, but they were off the beaten path. Blurr didn’t know why the mech was out here, but anyone else still up was probably closer to the burgeoning entertainment district downtown. There usually weren’t more than one or two insomniacs, if there were any at all, out on his road. 

“I've been known to be loud,” Blurr said and momentarily tightened his grip on the sensor horn. A low, hungry growl was his reward. “Though we're not going to play that rough here tonight.” His next touches were light and teasing again, and his thumb stroked along the sensitive horn gently. “But we'll see how good you do tonight first.”

“Who says I'm the one auditioning?” Obviously deciding to work his way down the list he’d been given, Blurr felt his playmate’s fingers on the pipes on his side.

Blurr arched and moaned; the first small flash of sparks buzzed tantalizingly where their plating touched. “I say,” he gasped, touch fluttering as he was momentarily distracted.

A dismissive sniff, mock disdainful. “I'm not the pretty little racer who needs a manager.”

“Think you can 'manage' me, huh?” Blurr asked with a laugh and dug his fingers in between his partner’s lateral chest plates. He’d never linked up with this mech’s frametype (the only one he knew was Jazz, but you didn’t try and link up with Jazz) but most had their cable ports here—

The snarl stopped him even before claws scratched threateningly against his side vents where the mech had been playing. “No sparks.” 

Oh. No. Not what he’d intended at all. Despite himself, though, Blurr's vents hitched and a shiver made his plating ring. Claws. His playmate had claws. “Fine by me, Turf-Stomper. Show me what you've got for me.” He moved down, away from the chest plating, and curled his fingers deeper to stroke the lines and substructure.

That settled, they relaxed into the rhythm they had been building again. 

Turf-Stomper didn't completely retract his claws though. “Someone likes this?” Blurr felt him very deliberately scratch a line in blue paint with talons that could probably rip into him if they weren't careful.

Blurr gave a low moan and shivered again. “No damage I can't buff out, and no real pain,” he forced the words through his eager panting. They were a reminder for himself as well as an instruction for his partner. He’d played these games before, and enjoyed them. He liked where pain could get him, but he knew better than to do that with a side of the road hook-up. Maybe later. “But yes.” Yes, he very much wanted to be scratched up. Blurr lifted his head and nipped playfully at Turf-Stomper’s shoulder.

He felt a shudder as pleasure sparked across his sensors. “Well then …” Claws extended fully again, digging furrows into the blue paint. Blurr would be buffing those out later. Or, maybe,  _ not _ buffing them out. Wearing the evidence of a great time for a bit was different wearing the scuffs from an accidental sideswipe.

Blurr cried out, arching up into the frame above him. His touches faltered, lost focus, and his grip tightened. “Frag,” he swore, panting. This mech was  _ good _ at this. “We plugging in? Or is this enough?” It took an effort to refocus, but Blurr managed to glide his fingers along the edges of his armor, playing over sensors to deliver a tingling buzz of charge to his playmate’s systems.

“Could do either.” Turf-Stomper grinned and just kept up his very deliberate, shallow scratches on the slats of Blurr’s vents.

Keening, Blurr grasped at dark shoulders, head flung back. He was fighting against himself for control, and his hands shook as he tried to keep touching rather than just cling. He wasn’t sure he  _ could _ plug in if they kept this up.

Blurr let out another keen as Turf-Stomper switched over to Blurr's abdominal vents, scratching shallow and deliberate marks into the slats. The keen turned to a cursed string of expletives that would have peeled his old Towerling buddies' finish right off as he arched into the mech’s scratching. His fingers clawed into shoulder plating, but he was only holding on now, panting and gasping, helpless whimpers escaping.

This was good. This was very good. An EM field unfurled, caressing Blurr, letting him know just how pleased and satisfied the mech was at his total loss of control. Shifting to pin Blurr more completely — just because he could, Blurr guessed, since he certainly wasn't fighting it now — the mech nuzzled Blurr's vulnerable neck cabling and nibbled gently. Blurr could smell-taste him; the scent of an aroused mech, one on the very edge of overload was intoxicating. Blurr let out a low moan that vibrated against the mech’s lips as he writhed. His movements weren’t coordinated enough to be an escape attempt. He just wanted to feel how well he was restrained. He let his field lash out with need and excitement, the air growing thick with their gathering charge. Blurr wasn't being all that loud right now, but he let out an almost constant stream of helpless sounds of want.

A sudden, sharp pain on the softest, most dent-able cable made Blurr buck and gasp at the bite. He arched with a wailing cry. It broke apart into near sobs with his overload, released charge making the air hum and crackle. 

Even better, his overload triggered his playmate's, which was a pleasant sight to behold. The mech's mouth opened in a soft, fang-filled exhalation as he shivered through the release. Blurr lay strutless and moaning softly beneath the heavier mech, all tension having drained away. Frag, he’d needed that, he thought as he began to drift back down. “Primus,” he mumbled, limbs limp and relaxed where they were still pinned.

“Close,” the mech drawled obnoxiously, tweaking one of Blurr's head-fins with his claws.

Blurr whined, over-sensitive now, and weakly batted at the hand. “You're a glitch, but you'll do. Get what you wanted out of that?” Sure the mech had overloaded, but Blurr still hadn’t reciprocated very well.

“Frag yes.” The mech swung himself off of his captive so he was kneeling next to him, instead of on top of him. Blurr didn’t feel like moving quite yet, but it was a nice gesture.

Optics dim, Blurr grinned up into the other mech’s yellow visor. “Good.” He stretched his arms up over his head, back arching and a soft groan escaping before dropping limp again. “Here's my comm. Let me know if you want another round sometime.” He sent the code over a short-range, open channel.

A snort. “You'll do, I suppose.” But Blurr got a comm number back so win. Next time he’d make the mech give him his name.

Blurr laid there another moment before rolling easily to his feet and checking his frame over. He brushed at his abdominal vents and touched the bite mark on his neck, very pleased with what he was feeling. “Until next time then, sexy,” he said and transformed.

“Whatever.” 

Chuckling, Blurr sped back toward the center of Iacon. He should be able to sleep now.

.

◇─◇──◇──◇─◇ 

.

Blurr went home to his three-story, salvaged building destined to become a townhouse, flopped face-first into his berth, and recharged very well indeed. He woke up smiling, still thinking about his tryst and very much feeling those scratches the mech had given him. Half-awake, Blurr let his fingertips play over the marks on his abdominal vents, enjoying the lazy arousal that coiled lightly through his lines at the memories.

It wasn't until after he'd washed up, dried off, and stepped in front of the mirror to begin buffing out the marks that Blurr realized they were words. Upon closer inspection of the thin vent slats below his windshield, lining his belly, real anger turned the pleasant memories to ash.  _ Property of Ricochet. _ How  _ dare— _

_ “I am not your property,”  _ Blurr snapped the instant the other end of the comm connected.  _ “I'm no one's property, never fragging again.”  _ Never,  _ never _ again! Blurr was frelling free, and he was staying that way, damnit!

_ “Aww …”  _ the mech drawled back, smug, obnoxious, and likely knowing just how smug and obnoxious he sounded. And also perfectly awake and not sleepy-sounding at all.  _ “Talk like that can make a mech feel unloved.” _

Blurr snorted and began vigorously buffing out the marks. They weren't so deep that he couldn't have it fixed before he needed to head out, but they were going to take work because he was not going to leave a single  _ hint _ that they had been there. It was a fragging tender spot too! _ “Yeah, I'm sure love is the issue here. Didn't you 'Cons start a war over slavery? I don't mind scratches, and I don't even mind this bite that I'm not going to be able to hide, but no one owns me.”  _ Actually, he could repair the dented cabling easily enough too, but he doubted there would be enough time, and  _ that _ mark wasn’t as humiliating as having some mech’s name carved into him.

_ “You're buffing it out now,”  _ Ricochet responded with a huff. _ “Did what you said and kept it shallow. Could even repair the bite, if you don't like it. Made sure.” _

_ “Damn right I am,”  _ Blurr replied, frustrated at the tone.  _ “I'm not angry about the scratches or the bite. I'm angry you labeled me your property. One fast frag for a thrill and you're claiming ownership?”  _ Damn, because Blurr had been hoping for more. The chemistry had felt really good between them. Ricochet could be fun. He sighed, audible over the comms.  _ “Are you really not getting what's bothering me, or do you just not care?” _

_ “I'm being told I really should stop laughing and tell you: I don’t care if you scrub it off because I don’t really mean it. Just wanted to piss you off a bit, watch your pretty blue plating fluff up. Worked too.”  _ There was a pause.  _ “Fluffed up nice. You looked like a wet cybercat.” _

Blurr blinked.  _ “What?”  _ He looked around quickly, but his unfinished washroom did have a window, and he scowled out through it, unable to see anyone, but there were a few good spots for a sniper’s nest that he could pick out right through the window without even trying. Across the street in front of his home, there was a row of four- and five-story buildings. Any one of them with their dark, broken out windows could suit. None were occupied as the roofs — and what used to be the upper floors — were still missing.  _ “You followed me home and are spying on me?”  _ He shook his head and went on to buffing the marks out.  _ “There's a word for that, and it's not pretty.” _

_ “Word is ‘stalking’, I know. I'm told it’s a very bad word. Just checking if I coulda tagged you — not that I'm allowed to have a good enough rifle anymore. I wasn't wanking off to you in the shower.” _

_ “Tagged … Primus,”  _ Blurr grumbled and stared down between his feet to wonder if their god was alive down there to be grumbled at. He’d dealt with stalkers and assassins before, but a  _ stalker assassin _ was something new.  _ “Also,”  _ he said and went back to cleaning, now applying a light nanite solution to help his color repopulate,  _ “I think I'm offended? No, disappointed. You saw me here, wet, hands all over myself, and you weren't wanking? What kind of creepy peeper are you?” _

_ “The kind that still respects my partners in the morning,”  _ Ricochet drawled back, amused.

A sharp laugh barked out.  _ “Oh? That's respect?”  _ Blurr glanced out the window and snickered. Damn. The chemistry he’d felt last night at the side of the road was still there, even creepy as this conversation should have been.  _ “I've been laboring under the wrong definition all my life,”  _ he said lightly, though he was sure to put enough of a sneer in the tone to be heard. Next up was the thigh vent, but Blurr ignored the irritation at seeing Ricochet's name there too. The scratches showed up more clearly on the blue than they had on the white. Angry on purpose. Oh, he'd played games like that before. Ricochet was a Grade A  _ aft _ but this was relatively mild. At least he hadn’t demanded Blurr lick his tires clean or something equally humiliating and then insisted it was just a game like some of the Towerlings had. Blurr could deal with some scratches. 

_ “Eh.”  _ Blurr could practically hear the mech shrug.  _ “Rather have  _ **_your_ ** _ hands on me than mine, however pretty a picture you make. Maybe next time you'll fight me. Do wonders for my rep if I could brag I beat a Wrecker, but peacetime makes sniper scopes almost cheating. Was fun peeping through your window, but it lost appeal once I saw you weren't paying attention.” _

Blurr hummed; the sound was entirely noncommittal. _ “So you want a second round then? Me fighting back and letting you overpower me is going to take more negotiation than a quick comm call.” _

_ “I don't need a fancy Towers brat to let me win, even if you were a Primus-damned Wrecker.”  _ Ricochet sounded more amused than offended.

_ “Let. You,”  _ Blurr said more firmly.  _ “Not because you can't win or I can't protect myself, but  _ **_let_ ** _ because no one touches me who I don't consent to.”  _ He looked out the window.  _ “Are we speaking the same language? Because I take this kind of game seriously.” _

_ “Yeah. Fine.”  _ Blurr heard a sigh over comms.  _ “I know how to take no for an answer. I thought we were talking about a real fight.” _

_ “A real— Why the frag would I want a real fight?! If I really fight you, and you still—”  _ Blurr huffed a sigh and shook his head, sitting below the window on the floor to finish his thigh vent.  _ “Look, I'm fine with rape fantasies and setting something like that up, but there is no way I'm going to ever bother really fighting you or anyone else. I've never liked fighting, and I'm not going to waste time when I could be having fun or doing something productive instead.” _

_ “Fine.”  _ Ricochet sounded disappointed.  _ “Just fragging then. Don't mind scuffling before or after or during, but it doesn't actually rev my engine to force anyone. Wouldn’t frag you if we were really fighting … Gonna need safewords if it revs you that much though.”  _ There was another pause.  _ “Your walls are kind of thin. Thermal scope's picking you up. Can't see what you're doing but could still shoot you.” _

Blurr paused his buffing, rolled his optics, and planted his hand back against the wall, middle finger straight up in a gesture he'd learned from Sideswipe, which the frontliner had apparently picked up on Earth. Ricochet barked out a laugh. Blurr wasn't sure he knew what the gesture meant, but it was obvious he thought the attempt was funny.  _ “What can you see now?”  _ Blurr asked sweetly. Ricochet had already said he didn’t have a gun that could shoot through the wall, thin or no.  _ “I'm not hiding from you, you aft, I'm sitting so I can see into the vent and fix the scratches there. And yes, I fully expect safewords to be chosen regardless.”  _ He gave his head a little shake and dropped his hand to get back to work.  _ “So what does rev you then? Besides actual fights, that is.” _

_ “Making you scream.” _

_ “Well, I'm all for that,”  _ Blurr replied, and spread the nanite gel over the newly buffed vent slat before standing up to clean his hands off.  _ “Are you shadowing me today? Should I grab an extra cube after my meeting for you?”  _ And slag, he needed to get out the door because speeding was definitely frowned upon during the day hours when traffic was heavier. He couldn't miss this finalization of the bar's reconstruction plans.

_ “Naw. I know I coulda shot you. I don't need to keep proving it.”  _ The words sounded dismissive, almost disappointed, but he wasn’t going to act like a paranoid  _ target _ for this mech’s amusement. Please. He was a Wrecker. And the war was over. 

Blurr grabbed the datapad he needed and headed out the door to the street.  _ “Out of curiosity, why did you need to prove you could? It's not like it'd be difficult. I'm not wartime careful anymore, and I'm not going to be.” _

He heard another sigh. _ “No one's that difficult anymore.” _

Blurr smirked to himself. That had definitely been disappointment, but less aimed at Blurr himself for being an easy target and more at everyone in general. He didn’t understand  _ why _ anyone would hang onto or miss that wartime mindset, but he could admit that there had occasionally been a thrill, and that  _ could _ be missed. _ “Miss the hunt, huh?”  _ There was an idea.  _ “Well, maybe I'm not willing to fight, but maybe I'm willing to run?” _

_ “Yeah?” _

_ “Yeah,”  _ Blurr confirmed.  _ “Not promising I'll be much of a challenge to catch more than once, but I can try. Why don't we talk about it over drinks later?” _

_ “Sure.” _

Blurr stepped onto the street and glanced up at the building he suspected Ricochet was on. He couldn’t see the sniper’s nest from here.  _ “Well, I won't twist your arm.”  _ He sent coordinates as a text-only. There weren’t a lot of places to get drinks, and this one was a dive close to the Decepticon claimed neighborhoods. Not someplace Blurr would usually frequent, but probably familiar to his stalker.  _ “There at sunset if you want. If not … Well, last night was fun, so thanks.” _

_ “Sounds fun.” _

Apparently, Blurr was less fun to needle when he was cordially inviting him out instead of flipping him off. Something to keep in mind. 

_ “Uh-huh. Later, Ricochet,”  _ Blurr said and closed the comm.

Grapple, Hoist, and the Build Team — and their Decepticon equivalents — were quite busy with constructing government buildings, solar farms, and either knocking down or patching buildings so that the city could be divided into lots for mechs to live and work on. They were much too busy to be contracted out for internal remodeling. Blurr could wait for his home, but Maccadam’s needed to be opened before too much competition sprang up. So Blurr was working with Guindaste, a much lesser-known contractor and builder for the interior. 

They had been working on the plans for a while and today they were doing the final walkthrough and approval.

There were the necessary structural things, which were already well underway. The patches in the roof had been reinforced, though eventually, Blurr would have to replace the whole roof. This had been one of those buildings whose roof had been mostly intact, and the government builders had patched it before declaring the plot livable. At which point Blurr had petitioned to claim it, but the patches were the strongest part of the roof and it showed. Guindaste and his team had already installed most of the extra supports to shore up the ancient architecture.

Much like his townhouse, this warehouse had major construction marked out on the floor, though Guindaste had used paint instead of tape. As they walked through the space and explored it, Blurr could visualize where non-structural walls were going to be put in to divide the back rooms from the front, show where the bar and shelves would be, and outline the stage. They spent some time arguing — again — over the mezzanine. Guindaste wanted to keep it, as a storage and office space, while Blurr wanted to get rid of it. They compromised by agreeing to put the back rooms underneath it so that it wasn’t obvious to the customers that there was a second floor, and then Blurr could use it, or not, however he wanted. 

Then there were the “lesser” changes. The proposed locations of chairs, tables, and booths marked out with simple Xs. Maccadams wasn’t going to have the most comfortable or high-end furniture when it opened, but Blurr would upgrade when he could. They discussed sound baffles to keep the noise level tolerable and whoever was on the stage cutting through the din. They were a good idea, and Blurr wanted them badly, but they were going to be expensive. 

It was a few hours later that Blurr found himself looking for Jazz. The mech knew everything about everyone. That sucker punch had been amusing in hindsight, so Blurr figured he could forgive it. Plus, he was willing to bet that Jazz knew something about his new Decepticon stalker. Former Decepticon? Were factions even a thing anymore? No one had officially dissolved them, but they weren’t at war anymore so what was the point of factions? Whatever the official status of the faction divide, Ricochet was definitely more unabashedly violent than Autobots tended to be outside the Wreckers. Seriously, Blurr thought and shook his head at himself. His danger kink was going to get him in real trouble someday … again. Best to go in aware though, and that also gave him the chance to see if Jazz was interested in sharing that music he loved with everyone else. If he was going to out-compete the cafes and dives that were springing up, Maccadam's was going to need live entertainment, and Blurr had seen Jazz sing and dance before.

Tracking Jazz down was a chore, but Blurr finally found him leaving a construction site at the very edge of a new residential district. He was looking as shiny and white as he ever did, though Blurr knew he could blend into any shadow he wanted. “Jazz!” he called. “You have a minute?”

Jazz glanced almost longingly back at the site, then turned to give Blurr a disarming smile. “Sure, buddy. Just fetching some fuel. Walk with me?”

Blurr skipped to Jazz's side and matched his pace. “What was the look for?” he asked.

“None of your business.”

“Wow.”

Jazz turned and headed towards the nearest … actually, Blurr wasn't sure where someone might get energon in this area. A cafe? Or someone just reselling the rations from the government’s massive new solar farms? “What's up?”

“Okay. Two things,” Blurr said, skipping straight to business then. Usually Jazz liked to gossip first but he was obviously annoyed at something. “I'm looking to hire live entertainment for Maccadam's once I reopen. Interested?”

Jazz snorted. “Well you're in luck that I have a sudden and actual need for rent money, so I'll see if I can track down an instrument.”

“Bar won't be open for a few more weeks,” Blurr said. “I just left the meeting for the final interior construction, so if they stay on track … a week.” The stage should be done then. “You think you can do an audition then?”

“I can find something in a week.”

“Good … Great! Thanks, Jazz!”

“What’s behind door number two?” 

“Two,” Blurr elaborated with a chuckle, “I've got a new playmate. Bit of a stalker and I wondered if you could tell me if I should be legitimately concerned about his attention, or if he's just being intense and weird. I can handle intense and weird, but I'm not interested in becoming someone's real prey.”

“A stalker?”

“Yes. Good frag I met last night. I think we could have some real fun together, but he decided to stalk me to see if he could snipe me at home. Was watching me through my 'racks window this morning when I cleaned up.” Blurr turned to walk backward and pointed to his neck. “Gave me this and a few other reminders that I already polished out.” He shrugged and spun back around to walk facing forward again. “All that scratching and biting. Rough around the edges, and I've never seen him before, so my guess is 'Con. Accent and frame like yours. Figured I'd ask because you know everyone and everything.”

“I'd assume he gave you a name, 'cept this is you we're talking about,” Jazz said teasingly. “Am I supposed to guess? You realize that there are at least a dozen mechs with ‘frames like mine’ left on both sides.”

Blurr chuckled and put a little more swing into his hips. “Don't be jealous. And yes, I got a name. Fragger carved it into me, but I just wanted to see if it rang any alarm bells right off.” Blurr shook his head. Actually, he wasn’t sure if Jazz was pressing him for more because he hadn’t recognized the description, or because he had. Fragging spies. “Ricochet. Hottie. Fragged me right through the middle lane of the highway leading out south?” He pointed vaguely south. “I needed a good run, and you know they get huffy with me if I open up here in town.”

“Yeah … ” Jazz looked at Blurr curiously, quirking a smile. “Ricochet? A Decepticon named Ricochet?” He shook his head and muttered something too low to hear.

“What was that?” Blurr asked with a grin, stepping closer and bumping Jazz's shoulder with his own. “Come on. I'm not asking you to dig up details, just tell me what you already know about the mech.”

“Good, 'cause I'm not opening an investigation into your hookups.” Jazz sighed. “Ricochet, huh? I know he likes fighting, fragging, and racing in about that order. I've never heard of him touching anyone who didn’t want him, but he's also a little … ” he made a vague, one-handed gesture indicating the mech wasn't quite playing with a full deck.

Blurr gave a nod. “Fair enough. I just want to make sure he's not the wrong kind of crazy. So. The 'you're not responsible for my decision regardless of how you answer' question is: would you trust him around say … Prowl?” Though Prowl would have to unwind a whole lot before anyone could get their fingers under his plating, Blurr — and the rest of the known universe — knew Jazz had a sweet spot for their erstwhile Second in Command.

Jazz made an indefinable choking sound, which made Blurr's lips twitch in a grin as he reached over to give Jazz a pat on the back. “Alright there?” he asked. “What the frag is up with you today?”

“Nothing,” Jazz said in the most not-nothing tone of voice ever. “It just … yeah. Fine. I'm fine. Totally fine. Prowl and Ricochet … ” Jazz's engine made a slightly stressed noise. “That's fine. Totally fine.”

Blurr paused in step, blinked, then scrambled the few steps forward to catch back up and lightly caught at Jazz's arm — though he knew better than to grab or even hold on. Jazz could gut him with nothing but his claws if he felt trapped. “Wait a second. Whoa, hold on. Prowl and Ricochet?” Pieces snapped into place, and while Blurr could hardly credit the idea, he was used to leaping to conclusions and usually being right about them. Something was bothering Jazz, that was clear. And then the way Jazz had said their names together. “Ricochet zapped Prowl? And you haven't murdered him yet?”

“Shut up. You make me sound like a jealous ex. They're big mechs.”

“Oh, it's not me making you sound like anything,” Blurr chortled. “Well, then. I guess I'm safe, unless Prowl thinks the mech is serious? I don't need Prowl being the jealous ex and coming at me. I want to live, thanks.”

“I don't think Ricochet's had a 'serious' fling in his life,” Jazz scoffed, though Blurr could hear the note of resentment under it. “Prowl's smarter than that.”

“Okay, yeah. Well, that explains why your diodes are in a twist. Prowl finally got some, and it wasn't you giving it.” Blurr clapped his hand on Jazz's shoulder. “Does it help then to know I plan to keep this Ricochet busy? Maybe you can get in there now the war's over? You do know you deserve to be happy too, right?”

“Frag off.” Jazz batted the hand away. “Well that's the short answer to your question: he's a violent aft head that likes pissing people off and blowing their circuits in about that order, and he doesn't know the meaning of the word 'commitment' but he takes no for an answer.”

Blurr held up his hands in surrender. “I'm being serious. I know mechs can rarely tell.” He dropped one hand and brushed the fingers of the other over the marks on his neck. “Prowl's not upset, right? Because I really don't poach on another mech's territory.”

Jazz eyed the bite but didn't comment. “No. I tried telling him about Rico’s conquests and he’s just plain fine with that. Prowl’s not under any illusions.” Jazz sounded a little sad, and the racer guessed it was because he couldn’t murder Ricochet for cheating if Prowl knew what he was getting into. “Go ask him yourself. He doesn’t care.”

“Alright. And thanks.” Blurr reached over and poked Jazz's arm. “Hey, once the bar's open, you should drag Prowl in. Croon love songs at him. See if he gets it. Know what his favorite treats are? I’ll make some.”

“Buzz off.” Jazz batted at the hand again. “I'm not taking relationship advice from you of all mechs.”

“Pff! That's not advice,” Blurr said, dodging the flailing hand. “Advice would sound like this: you should pin him to the wall, kiss him within an inch of his life, and confess your long-held and very-well-known-to-all-the-rest-of-us love. What I'm doing is being a wingmech and helping you do it.”

“I said buzz off. Go bother your new boy toy. You and him are perfect for each other, I'm sure.”

Blurr laughed and skipped off to the side, ready to run if he needed to. “I plan to bother him plenty. See ya, Jazz! Tell Prowl I said hi!”

“Blurr,” Jazz said in a suddenly serious tone. “Don't pin him. Maybe he pushes you to fight and you kick his ass, but you let him up as soon as he yields because the only time I hear nasty things about Ricochet is when someone else thinks they get to be on top.”

Blurr paused just short of transforming and turned to meet Jazz's visor before giving a single nod. “Thanks, Jazz. Really. And if you're free tomorrow afternoon, I'll be at the bar and can show you around.”

“I'll take you up on that tour,” Jazz answered, turning to continue his walk to … wherever. “Gotta make sure you install a real sound system. And also that you'll be paying me.”

“What? You don't want to work just for tips?” Blurr laughed and dropped into his alt. “See ya, Jazz!” He felt much better about playing whatever game Ricochet was after now. If the mech was genuinely dangerous, Jazz would've warned him off, which, while Jazz had  _ warned him, _ that warning hadn’t been “stay away from him for your own good“. It wasn’t like Blurr enjoyed being on top as much as the reverse. He could deal with an actual dom. With a glance at his chrono, Blurr figured he had just enough time to get himself home, polish himself up pretty for ruining, and meet Ricochet for those drinks and the negotiation.

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I accidentally posted a chapter early and then when I quickly went to delete it, I somehow ended up deleting ch 1 too. I'm pretty sure I have it all fixed now, but I deleted all the comments and I'm actually crying about it. I'm sorry ~dragonofdispair


	2. Chapter 2

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◇─◇──◇──◇─◇

.

Given how rough around the edges, as he'd described him to Jazz, Ricochet seemed to be, Blurr wasn't sure he'd actually appreciate the effort he was going through to polish up. On the other hand, Blurr was sure Ricochet wouldn't turn who-can-be-the-prettiest into a dumb, overblown contest either so there was a plus. He liked being shiny, but playing games with Towerlings wasn’t exactly a smooth drive.

He shrugged to himself. He was prettying up _for_ himself, he decided. Even if Ricochet didn't appreciate it, Blurr would enjoy looking at himself after and seeing just how much a mess they'd made of his perfect polish.

Heads turned as Blurr sauntered into the dive a little later, and he smirked a bit even as he spotted Ricochet at the rickety-looking bar. It looked like it had been constructed of duck tape and scrap metal. And … _Primus,_ did they not clean in here? He hoped he didn't end up with a rust infection just from walking into the place. There were a couple of free seats — also not terribly well-constructed — on either side of Ricochet. No one was looking at _him,_ and there really was a decent crowd. Blurr didn’t recognize anyone besides Ricochet, but this was a Decepticon dive bar, over in the Decepticon-claimed part of town, and Blurr just wasn’t familiar with anyone who hadn’t made the most wanted posters. There were probably quite a few mechs who recognized a former-Wrecker though, and Blurr refused to let that bother him. The war was _over._

“Good evening,” Blurr said as he slid onto a stool and angled his chin in a way that showed off the mark rather than hid it. “Should we grab a more private spot to sit?”

“Don’t care how much an exhibitionist you are,” Ricochet drawled back, counting out the pile of shanix in front of him and separating enough to pay for a few drinks, “we are not fragging in a crowded restaurant where I can’t even blackmail the staff.”

“What?!” Blurr's head snapped back a little. His plating ruffled in offense — and not a little disgust — before he remembered that Ricochet liked pissing him off on purpose and smoothed it out. “I wasn't suggesting that. There's such a thing as standards. I meant to talk.”

Ricochet smirked. “Talk. Sure.” He swept up the larger pile of shanix and subspaced it. “Our table’s the one over there in the corner.” He stood. “The one without sniper sightlines.”

“Paranoid, aren't you?” Blurr asked, tossing a cred chip at the bartender before following with his own drink. At least the glass looked clean, and there was nothing suspicious floating in his energon. It was just distilled solar, government-made rations that had been concentrated into highgrade, and if _this_ was the sort of competition Maccadam’s had right now Blurr was going to have no problem getting customers.

Blurr got a good look at Ricochet while they wove between the DIY tables. He hadn’t expected Ricochet to polish up for this meeting, but he looked even more scuffed-up than he had after their frag on the road. And not just scuffed — injured. The limp was barely noticeable (he hid it very well and if Blurr weren’t, well, Blurr he might not have seen it), but he had a few newly welded patches on his side and hip.

“And what'd you do to yourself? Find that fight?” He glided past, one finger trailing over Ricochet's hip without touching the wounds. “What's the other mech look like?”

“Oh, he’s definitely not walking until morning.” Ricochet preened, sitting at a booth that looked like it had been made from salvaged starship parts. “Will walk though. Not all of us can be bartenders, and there’s plenty of ex-gladiators around. You get your special project off the ground and you’ll probably be airing Rage Cage matches on holo.”

Blurr shook his head a bit, taking his place across from the other mech. “You'd think after all the war, mechs would be happy to chill the frag out for a while.” He sipped at his drink and met Ricochet's visor evenly. “I've been thinking about letting you hunt me though. We'd have to be sure that wherever you caught me wasn't public. Don't want to upset mechs who might not get what's going on.”

“Y~eah …” Ricochet smirked, then flashed his fangs. “Let's actually back up a bit and start with what kind of 'hunt' you want. Didn’t make the best impression this morning. I _want_ a real fight, but I wouldn’t frag you after it. Just looking for bragging rights.”

Blurr grinned, gaze flickering over those fangs. “I don't need the hunt, that's for you, so you tell me what you want there. I can run, and I have enough training to make it something of a challenge, but I also have a fair amount of obligations and I'll soon have a much stricter schedule. I can't play while working, and I'll be the sole employee in the bar until business picks up enough to hire more help, so there won't be any long hide and seek games, I'm afraid.”

“So I hunt,” Ricochet walked his fingers across the table, and Blurr noticed those claws were fully retractable when he pulled them in to avoid denting the table. Huh. That wasn't common in his experience. Watching Ricochet's fingers, Blurr vaguely wondered who else he'd seen that feature on. “And you want privacy when I catch you. Woulda figured that anyway. Can do a snipe on someone in public and get away, but you need quiet if you're getting in close.” Ricochet tilted his head. “I ain't actually interested in rape. Up to you how far you wanna play that part.”

“Glad to hear it. And rape fantasy is one of those things I can take or leave. It's a thrill, but not anything I crave. I like being pinned or tied.” He smirked. “I am an exhibitionist and get off on being watched, but only by mechs who want to see it. It's not fun to make others uncomfortable. I want them getting off on seeing me get off, not wishing they could wash out their processors.” He tapped a finger against his glass. “You know I like it rough, it's just got to be stuff I can clean up by the next time I have to be in public. It was different on the ship. It didn't matter if I had gouges from the cables that bound me, or claw marks all over my plating. So long as the dents didn't interfere with my balance while running or impede range of motion, it didn't matter if it took a few days to heal. We were living in each others’ subspace pockets; they knew what was up.” Blurr waved fingers toward his neck. “This is an obvious mark from fun. The scratches to my vents could be … mistaken now for something less fun. Normally, I rather like wearing the marks from a good round or three.”

“I'm totally down with pinning and tying.” Ricochet smirked back. “I'm not an exhibitionist, but I ain't got any shame either. I like it rough, but I don't mind if you're not wearing my marks.” Ricochet frowned and Blurr saw his nose scrunch up. “I don't own you, but playing possessive is a turn on, and pissing you off is fun.”

“Hard to tell it was just a game from a mech I'd barely spoken to,” Blurr replied and sipped his highgrade. “So long as it stops if I need to tap out. I do have a problem with humiliation. Only times I've safeworded in the past have been because of being pushed too far that way. Well, and the time the rope slipped into my knee joint. That hurt in all the wrong ways.” He grinned. “I don't mind if you’re possessive, I guess. Make me say I'm all yours and the like if you want.” 

“I will,” Ricochet growled lightly, raking his gaze over Blurr aggressively enough that he shuddered. “So are there any right ways for it to hurt?” 

His playmate was a bit of a sadist, huh? “I wasn’t going to do any painplay on the side of the road with a jerk who wouldn’t even tell me his name,” Blurr said, deliberately snippy and Ricochet laughed. “But if you like it we can do that a bit. No major injuries, and nothing that can’t be buffed out.”

Ricochet scoffed. “I’m not an amateur. So that’s what you don’t like, but what kind of pain _do_ you like?” 

Honestly, Blurr hadn’t been asked that before. “Shallow,” he decided. He didn’t like pain, really, or being injured, but he liked that floaty headspace— “Oh!” Blurr pointed at Ricochet. “I can go nonverbal, and if I get that deep, I'll need you willing to stick around until I'm back in my head. You don't have to be super gentle, though I like that a bit, but if you just abandon me, that'll mess me up for real, and there won’t be a second chance.”

“Sure. Whatever. Don't mind that. Comes with the package.” Ricochet tapped the table again, and Blurr felt one of the mech's feet reach over and spin his wheel under the table. “Ain't never left a mech wanting there.”

“Oh?” Blurr asked, smiling and shifting his leg closer. “Secret cuddler, are you? Don't worry, I won't tell.” 

Dark plating bristled aggressively. “You're the one who just said you wanted to cuddle. Don't pin that on me.” 

So it was like that. Alright. Well, he wouldn’t be the first mech Blurr had slept with who had left as soon as he got what he wanted. As long as the mech stayed if Blurr went nonverbal, he would be satisfied with that. He finished off his highgrade and shifted the glass far off to the side so none of the servers would think he wanted more. “Safeword's peppermint. Noxious slag. Earth had this holiday where I couldn't escape the smell of it for a whole month.” His nose wrinkled up at the memory. “Or do you prefer the color system? I've used it, but usually only in longer sessions with a sadist to check in on how I was.”

“Can do either.” Ricochet shrugged. “I'll remember both. If we ain't using colors, my safeword's safeword.” He snickered at his own cleverness.

Blurr tipped his head — it wasn’t actually clever, in his opinion — but nodded. It would be easy to remember at least. “Am I allowed to piss you off back?” he asked.

“Only if you want me to put you in your place, sweetspark.”

A slow smile curved its way across Blurr's lips. “Good to know. Being a brat can be its own reward.” He gave it some thought, fingers drumming lightly on the table, but couldn't think of anything else. “When do you want to play? I've got to check in on the bar tomorrow afternoon, but I'm free until then and after that.”

“I got another match tomorrow, and a nosy roommate who'll check that I'm behaving myself and haven't killed anyone some time, eh, probably in the morning.” He shrugged, then smiled. “I'll give you a head start.”

“When's the head start begin?” Blurr asked. “And I can get pretty far, pretty fast, so what limits do you want to use?”

“You got a schedule you gotta keep like you said.” Ricochet grinned. He played with Blurr's wheel with his toe again. “I already scouted your place and that warehouse you're turning into a bar. No matter how far you run, you're coming back there eventually.”

Blurr hummed, considering all the bolt holes he knew about or had found when bored and wandering. There were a few near his house, and if he hurried, he could dash home, grab a small supply kit, and then get into one of them to hide out until he had to head to the bar. It wouldn't be the most comfortable place to recharge, but without any prior surveillance, Ricochet likely wouldn't find him. And if he did? Well, then that just gave Blurr an idea of how well he'd need to hide next time.

“Guess I'll head out then,” Blurr said and stood. “How much time until you start looking?”

Ricochet teasingly tipped his glass, from one corner to the other, letting the liquid inside slosh gently. “Probably until I finish this. Dunno though, I might get bored sitting here by myself.”

“Don't make it too easy on yourself,” Blurr purred as he leaned down and let his lips brush over Ricochet's sensor horn. “Have to let that anticipation build a little.” He angled his head, the tip of his nose trailing down the side of Ricochet's helm under the horn. “Happy hunting.”

Blurr turned, calculated the path through the milling bar patrons, then moved. He was out the door in the next instant and only slowed once outside so as not to rile anyone up. If anyone in their burgeoning law enforcement department saw him, they would probably have fussed, but Blurr still made it to his apartment, then into his bolt hole before Ricochet — at top speed — could have made it from the bar to his apartment. It was a good bolt hole too. A few blocks away from the townhouse (and out of sight of Ricochet’s sniper nest!) the buildings here had all been deemed unlivable and unrepairable, but exploring them had revealed that someone had added a basement/bomb shelter during the early stages of the war. When he’d found it, there had still been shelves of stored energon and other supplies, though they hadn’t survived the years and scavengers, not intact. He really had no plans of refurbishing it, so he’d cleaned up the mess and left the shelves empty, but it was a fun find. And totally free to use until the building was demolished and the plot claimed by someone. He flung open the door and sped down the ladder, closing everything up behind him. Cozy. He settled in with a good mystery novel to pass the time.

Hours passed. Hours and hours passed. Blurr finished up the novel and figured Ricochet wasn't going to find him. What he'd said at the bar was true: eventually Blurr had to go home or to the bar, but that didn't help Ricochet find him right _now,_ did it? He was probably in that sniper's nest, waiting for Blurr to “get tired and come home“. Well, he didn't need to go home until tomorrow night. That'd teach Ricochet to be an arrogant aft!

He did have a busy day planned tomorrow getting the bar ready, “interviewing” Jazz, trying to convince him to actually make a move on Prowl … busy busy. Definitely needed sleep now. Certain he'd evaded his playmate at least until tomorrow evening, Blurr let himself drift off. 

He jerked awake with a muffled screech when a pair of hands grabbed him — one over his mouth and the other pinning one wrist — at the same time as a heavy, immovable weight settled on top of him. Groggy from sleep, Blurr fought back for real for a moment. His free hand snapped up at full speed, but his aim wasn't the best, and his hand skidded off smooth shoulder plating. A curse echoed in the dark, and Blurr’s mouth was released so that his captor could put his weight more securely on his shoulders and chest. Blurr bucked and kicked out, sliding himself and his attacker halfway across the small storage space, and utterly failing to dislodge him. He kicked again, trying to hit the mech directly, but he couldn’t reach. It was the yellow light of a visor that made him pause.

“Ricochet,” Blurr said, and finally enough fog cleared that he remembered what their game was.

A low, vicious laugh answered him. His fans had come on while Blurr struggled, and he hadn't been dislodged by any of the wild, flailing kicks. “Hello, sweetspark.”

“About time,” Blurr snarked as he slipped the fingers of his free hand into a plating gap at Ricochet's waist to play with the cabling there. “I thought I was going to be lonely all night.” He checked his chrono, but yes, it was still technically night. “Well, you found me.” Blurr gave a sinuous winding of his hips under Ricochet's weight. “Now what are you going to do to me?”

Ricochet leaned forward and bit him. No playful nip or carefully applied pressure this time; Ricochet bit, definitely leaving a claiming mark that would take some time to go away.

Blurr cried out, reflexes caught between pushing Ricochet away from the pain and yanking him closer as heat and pleasure rushed through him. It translated into a spasm of his fingers before they curled in tighter, his caught hand clenching into a fist. “More,” he gasped, head thrown back.

“Did you think I was going to stop with just one, sweetspark?” Ricochet bit Blurr's collar faring, a sturdy strut that didn't bend, but Blurr could feel the little divots being pressed into his armor there. “You're mine and by the time I'm done with you, you're going to look it.”

Blurr yelped again, unconcerned with being heard by anyone tucked away in a basement of an unoccupied building. “Yours, huh?” he asked, already panting and not really sounding all that convincing to his own audials, but Ricochet wasn't getting an agreement that quickly. “Don't feel like it.” He should've thought to ask, but Ricochet clearly didn't mind a little damage or ”fighting back”, so Blurr scraped his fingers over the sensitive substructure at Ricochet's hip. ”Better work harder.”

Ricochet's EM field flared with arousal, but he snarled and raked his own hand down Blurr's chest, leaving furrows of scratched paint in his claws' wakes. “If you think I won't carve my name in you again …“

Blurr keened through a laugh, or perhaps laughed through a keen. Either way, the heady mix of pleasure-pain rushed him and he was smirking up at Ricochet as he said, “Think that alone will make me yours? Think that'll make me feel like I'm all yours?” He gave his fingers a slight twist and pull, nothing that would really hurt or even mark Ricochet up, but it would be felt. “I could carve my name just as easily. Would that make you mine?” he taunted.

The glow in Ricochet‘s visor brightened and sharpened. Blurr felt his grip tighten. Then loosen. “No,” he said, calm and angry and not playing anymore. “That would make me very mad.”

Blurr stilled a moment and eased his own grip a little, more than enough for Ricochet to pull away. That wasn't a safeword calling everything to a halt, but he knew Ricochet meant it. Well, Jazz had warned him, he just hadn’t expected Ricochet to be quite _this_ sensitive about it. Blurr was just being a brat, but if that wasn’t a flavor of brattiness Ricochet could tolerate, Blurr could deal with it. “Good thing I have no plans to bother then.” He slid his fingers lightly along Ricochet's substructure, an invitation to continue, that he'd gotten the message. They were new to playing together, so Blurr wasn't bothered that they'd tripped over something like this and he would adjust accordingly.

“Where’re your ports, sweetspark?” Ricochet growled softly, swinging back down into the rhythm of building arousal. “I want more this time.”

Blurr shivered, optics fluttering shut as he tightened his grip again. “Left lateral,” he answered, and released the locks so the small, finely fitted panel clicked up where Ricochet could see it. Blurr left it closed though, wanting to feel the mech open it for himself. “Going to take all of me?” he asked.

“Everything I can get.” Ricochet shifted, pulling Blurr’s hands up so he could pin them both as he switched hands. Then his claws were digging into the revealed seam, leaving shallow scores as he roughly pulled the panel open.

Blurr squirmed, testing Ricochet's grip lightly just to be sure he was pinned well. Just to feel it. Each scratch blazed fire through his lines, a shallow line of sensation that lingered in a way that gentleness never quite managed. “I'm built for endurance. Can go … nngh … and go and go.”

Ricochet snickered. “Yeah. We’ll see about that.” And his cord snicked roughly into the corresponding port. 

The mech was as aggressive mind-to-mind as he was in the metal. Both of them had top-tier firewalls, and Ricochet barely waited for Blurr to lower his before he rushed into him, breezing through the other authorizations with — had to be stolen — Autobot access codes. Blurr could think as fast as he could run, but it was still dizzying how quickly Ricochet made himself at home in Blurr’s processor and plugged himself into his, their, sensory suite. 

_Cozy …_

And then Ricochet flipped Blurr’s whole sensor network on.

Blurr arched right off the floor, optics blazing white, mouth open in a silent scream. He'd been with mechs who'd gone right for his sensory suite before, but they'd never dared anything so brutally immediate. Blurr's systems went from warming into real arousal to overload in a fraction of a second. It hurt. It was overwhelming.

Primus, it was perfect.

His vents sucked in air to cool his suddenly burning frame, and Blurr wailed with the too-much-perfect-pleasure-pain of it, his voice echoing in the small room.

Blurr didn’t know how long he was held there, feeling too much to feel anything before he was guided back. Ricochet dialed it back down much more slowly than he’d ramped it up, easing Blurr’s transition from utter sensory overload to soothing blackness with an ease that spoke of a familiarity with other mechs’ processors. He was forced to rest there in soft, velvety darkness.

When he was allowed to start registering his frame again, everything ached, especially around his wrists, and Blurr wondered briefly if he’d fought Ricochet while whited out. A smug, liquid chuckle echoed in the quiet. Ricochet, still there. With a low purr, Blurr shifted, feeling the aches as he tried to clear his vision enough to see. Were they still connected? It felt like it, and he moved again, this time to burrow closer — both mentally and physically — to the warmth he could feel. He was melted slag, a puddle, and he didn't bother hiding it or pretending he didn't feel amazing and sated.

“Tha' wuz good,” Blurr slurred, then giggled, because clearly it was even better than he'd thought if he couldn't speak properly.

Ricochet snickered. He flicked his attention through Blurr’s diagnostics, toggled a few brief spikes of pleasure; Blurr couldn’t even manage to whimper properly. Then he released Blurr’s wrists with a caress of claws down his arm. He settled down on top of Blurr, smug and sated in his own right. “Of course it was, sweetspark.”

“Tease,” Blurr moaned and wound his arms around Ricochet's middle to keep the mech close. Ricochet wasn't all that heavy, but the weight of him was grounding and comfortable, and he was nice and warm as Blurr's incredibly efficient vents cooled him too fast. “For you too then?” Because that was important to Blurr. Not so much for his ego, but he liked mechs to enjoy him as much as he enjoyed them. He could make a guess based on how Ricochet felt through the linkage but hearing it was better.

“Oh yeah. Got a good echo off of you.” Clawed hands gently pushed Blurr’s head up so that Ricochet could inspect the bite marks there and a frisson of satisfaction leaked from him and into Blurr’s processor. “Want me to stay plugged in while you sleep or not?”

Blurr hesitated and did try to hide that, though as deeply inside as Ricochet was, he doubted his success. He wanted to, but he didn't want to come across as too clingy, especially so soon in their game. “If you don't mind,” he settled on. “Even if it's just until I'm out.” The mech was a battering ram when he wanted to be, but Blurr didn't doubt his finesse and ability to slip away. He’d been too efficient in the connection for him to be unpracticed in any part of networking. And Blurr was exhausted now, so it wouldn't take long to drop off once he stopped actively trying to stay awake and enjoy the afterglow.

Ricochet just grunted, but he didn’t pull out. Instead, Blurr felt him flicking through subroutines like they were the pages of his favorite bookfile while he made himself comfortable. He gathered Blurr into his arms, holding him tight. “This what you want?”

“Yes,” Blurr said and chuckled before tipping his head back to kiss Ricochet's jaw. “Thanks,” he murmured and snuggled in, systems humming contentment. He set his internal alarm to give him enough time to get back home, clean up well, and still make the meeting, then let himself relax into recharge, feeling the best he had in a while.

.

◇─◇──◇──◇─◇

.

Blurr was coaxed awake, not by his alarm, but by someone triggering his waking protocols a few minutes before the alarm was supposed to go off. Blurr was still … warm and held close, resting comfortably in his Decepticon playmate’s arms.

“Awake?” Ricochet barely waited for a mental acknowledgment, then went ahead and unplugged.

“Yeah.” Blurr scrubbed at his face, his frame still aching deliciously. He was rather surprised Ricochet had stayed plugged in so long, or at all for that matter, given how he’d reacted to the idea of cuddling during their negotiation. “Thanks. Want to come up for energon?” he offered, aiming to be polite and show he was grateful to have been stayed with.

“I’m not helping you buff out the marks,” Ricochet stipulated smugly, rolling off of Blurr and smoothly into a crouch.

“I wouldn't expect you to,” Blurr replied with a grin. “Though you can watch as I erase all your hard work if it inspires you to do such a thorough job putting them all back next time.”

Ricochet snickered and held out a hand to help Blurr up.

Blurr caught the hand and pulled himself to his feet, and— “Oh ow …” He let go of Ricochet and stretched, groaning as stiff tensor cables pulled. “I may need a day or two before you go that hard again.” He rolled his shoulders and glanced at his wrist, then down at his chest. Between the surprised struggle when Ricochet’d found him and the mech’s claws, Blurr was absolutely covered in scuffs, dents, and scratches. It was a good thing he picked such a close place because anyone who saw him was going to think he got into a fight with an angry photovoltaicat. “I wish I could leave these,” he said softly, not even really meaning to speak out loud, but then straightened and headed for the door, figuring Ricochet would follow. “I'm learning all sorts of mixes. Do you have a favorite, for regular energon that is?”

“Yeah? You got any ethyl ices? That nasty racer’s sludge of powdered plastics and the rest of the nutritious slag goes down a bit easier if you use the ices to make it slushy.”

Blurr thought as they walked. “I might have some, but we'll have to unpack it. I've got all the supplies for the bar stored at home for now so I can practice and also have a decent supply of premade treats and goodies when I open.” He glanced at Ricochet with a grin. “You think racer packs are nasty?” They certainly weren't the greatest, but Blurr had lived on them and nothing else for so long that he didn't really notice. He certainly liked other things more, but the powder packs gave him what he needed like no other mix. “I usually put mine in regular old energon with some copper flakes if I can get them and call it good enough, but slushy could be fun.”

“Better than ration packs,” Ricochet retorted, then sighed. “Don’t actually mind them. I’ll take it.” 

The streets around here, which had once been a shopping district full of highrises with shops on the bottom floor and apartments, workshops or offices above, were narrow and created a maze of alleyways. Once it all was cleared out, new single-cohort homes would likely be built to replace them, but for now, they were mostly just empty and abandoned. Blurr’s townhouse had three intact floors and a roof, and it had been a _steal_ even though land and old buildings were literally being given away.

“Don’t need to dig out your business things for me though. Racer pack with cobalt and chrome’ll do,” Ricochet continued.

Blurr made a noncommittal noise and keyed open his door. He'd reset the lock later just to mess with Ricochet, so he didn't bother to try too hard to block the mech's view. He bypassed the door that went to the weirdly placed stairs that led up to the still-intact top floors and just used the door that went to what had once been the building’s retail space. He had all his future rooms and remodeling planned out with tape, but right now it was just easier to live completely on the bottom floor. 

Those trophies and awards that had survived the war sat on a table near the door, where eventually Blurr would put a display case for them. 

“Stairs up are through there,” Blurr said, waving in the direction of the other door. He had plans to get rid of that door completely, build a proper entryway, and move the stairs to somewhere more home-like than hidden. “All these marks are for the planned decor and possible walls to help divide the space.” Right now his bed was downstairs, for convenience, but eventually, he’d put it on the third floor with his washroom, which was currently just a shower stall and a mirror, but he was going to build it into a mini spa, as luxurious as he could afford. An entire floor with nothing on it but a bedroom and a spa, big enough to share with practically anyone.

“They are, huh?” Ricochet smirked as he looked around. 

“Yep!” Blurr was not at all bothered by the mech’s attitude. He wouldn’t be the only one to doubt Blurr’s ability to achieve his ambitious remodeling plans. “Make yourself at home,” he offered, waving toward the sofa. He was rather pleased with that and his berth. Both were found items that he repaired and then harassed Perceptor into making him a nice, dense, and squooshy foam for the padding. The cover was utilitarian and durable, but the cushioning would make a Towerling weep from envy. He only had one right now, but his taped-off living room had space for two more couches. He liked entertaining and looked forward to the day he could have his first real house party.

Blurr stepped around the taped-off areas with practiced ease, already envisioning the space with a large kitchen, dining room, and sitting room. A larger sink for washing, cupboards for storing, an actual oven and stove … The extravagant cooking space was real already, if only in his thoughts and plans. Right now, though, the kitchen was a folding table with a hot plate, like those most mechs would have as the only heating element in their kitchens.

He kept everything clean, but right now it was empty, filled only with his hopes and dreams. He didn’t really have any entertainment things as he’d been concentrating on getting Maccadam’s off the ground. 

While Ricochet flopped over on the couch, Blurr went up the stairs — by going out the main door and over to the other — and stepped into what would eventually be the second berthroom. This whole floor was going to be redone for guests and lovers. Two bedrooms, another sitting area, a kitchenette … he even had the plumbing for a second washroom already installed, though this one didn’t even have a shower head attached yet. Right now the whole space was just storage, mostly for things he’d gathered for when the bar opened.

He dug through the crates. The racer’s mix and cobalt were downstairs, but chrome and ethyl were both tucked away up here. Once he found both, Blurr headed back to the main room to gather the rest of his supplies and get mixing. He glanced over at Ricochet, who made a gesture indicating he was on a call when their gazes met.

Blurr chuckled quietly and proceeded to make his usual mess. The ethyl was something he had only tried to do a couple times before, so he practiced on his own drink, and when that came out alright, he did Ricochet's, pouring some of the cobalt and chrome into two little dishes and setting them and their breakfast on the small tray he used when Drift came over for tea.

The tray went on the small conversation table — a reclaimed ammunition crate — and then Blurr picked up Ricochet's feet, sat, and let them lay back over his lap before reaching for his drink. While Ricochet finished on the phone, Blurr sipped his fuel and traced the lines on his chest with his fingertips. Ricochet saw the gesture and grinned without comment. 

“Nosy roommate,” he explained as he finished up and took a swig of the energon. From someone who'd described the racing mix as “nasty“, Blurr had kind of expected a flinch but he drank it like he did so every day.

“Worried about you not coming home last night?” Blurr asked, watching Ricochet drink. “Did I get it right? And there are more flavorings if you want them,” he added, gesturing to the shallow dishes.

“It's fine. Fizzy.” Rico grinned. “And that'd be hypocritical of him, given his history. He's just checking I haven't killed anyone.”

Blurr smiled back. “How'd he know you weren't there then?”

Ricochet shrugged. “Probably magic.”

Blurr laughed and then finished his energon. “Much less trouble living on my own.” He nudged Ricochet's feet. “Let me up. I need to get cleaned up before it gets any later.”

“Say please.” He bared his fangs.

“You're lucky you're cute,” Blurr said and tickled a finger into the more delicate gears and pulleys of Ricochet's ankle. He was curious to see if the mech would play — non-sexually — with him. The only involuntary reaction that got was a silent flexing of claws. Ricochet's grin didn't falter and he just looked at Blurr's hand pointedly.

Blurr checked his chrono against how long it would take to buff out the marks he had as well as the ones he was tempting Ricochet to give him now versus when he absolutely had to be out his front door. He grinned back, finger nudging and poking lightly, tickling more and ready to be pounced. Or quit, but he was feeling playful. He fully expected— 

Ricochet's leg hooked around Blurr's thigh and yanked, pulling them both off the couch and into an awkward tangle on the floor. Blurr laughed even as they clattered to the ground, but he recovered fast. He was lighter than Ricochet, but the mech knew not to let him out of reach. Blurr groped after Ricochet's arms to grapple with him, but he did keep Jazz's warning in mind. Besides, he didn't plan to win, he just wanted to be touched and to touch in return without really revving either of them up. 

“Not ticklish?” he asked and redirected a hand toward Ricochet's side.

Ricochet growled and wrestled. He wasn't trying to tickle Blurr back; they wrestled and it was … not as playful as Blurr might have liked, but not a serious fight either. He was going to have some dents, though. From hitting the table.

The game ended with Blurr pinned to the ground. 

“Not really ticklish, no,” Ricochet finally answered. “Involuntary reactions are a weakness.” Something he demonstrated by running his fingers over Blurr’s side. Another laugh shook through him and he went limp under Ricochet, surrendering completely. 

“Alas.” He gave a little wriggle. “I really need to get cleaned up now though, so please let me up?” he asked, still smiling widely and unhidden happiness in his field.

“Since you asked nicely,” Ricochet purred back before backing off. “As much as I'd like to watch you in the shower — again — I have a fight later. I'll let you go change your lock codes in peace.”

Blurr burst out laughing again and rolled to his feet. “Should I come home tonight?” he asked. “Or should I find somewhere better to hide?”

“Thought you said you need a few days to recover?” That smirk? That was an obnoxious smirk.

“From you being so rough, not from 'facing at all,” Blurr answered, but then shrugged. “But if you don't want to, that's cool. I'm sure I can find someone to entertain me, even if they won't do as good a job,” he tossed over his shoulder, heading for the washroom.

He saw Ricochet's visor narrow. 

Blurr winked and stepped through the door leading upstairs again, leaving Ricochet to see himself out. That expression said “challenge accepted” in every language Blurr knew.

By the time Blurr had gotten out of the shower, scrubbed, and had the scratches filled over, Ricochet had left.

He'd cleaned their dishes though.

.

◇─◇──◇──◇─◇

.


	3. Chapter 3

.

◇─◇──◇──◇─◇

.

Blurr smiled as the door opened and Drift stepped in. “Welcome to Maccadam's! Sorry, we're not open until tomorrow.” The tables were all in place, Jazz had installed and tested his sound system, and now Blurr was giving his new glasses a final polish and placing them neatly on the shelves under the bar. “I might have a couple treats. Possibly even some tea I could whip up though.”

“Tea would be fantastic,” Drift said with a smile. He bounced a little when he walked, he always did, and looked around the renovated space with interest. He looked just like he had with the Wreckers, all optic-grabbing contrasts. Shiny white and red armor layered on top of matte grey substructures. His swords, all three of them, were still displayed prominently on his frame. Blurr might have given up his weapons, but Drift hadn’t; then again, Drift’s were more symbolic than his own had been. For Blurr, weapons had been an unfortunate necessity, something he could put down with relief, while for Drift they — all of them — represented who he’d been when he’d picked them up, and ultimately who he wanted to be. “It looks good. It'll be hopping in no time.”

“That's the hope,” Blurr said as he turned toward the back counter and began warming the energon and gathering the thinning medium and additives Drift liked. He turned back, crouching to reach under for the oil cakes he'd made, and looked up at Drift, chin lifted to see over the edge of the bar. “I think these came out pretty good, but let me know what you think,” he said as he rose again and plopped the tray on the bar.

Blurr saw Drift's hand reach out too fast to be polite, and while he could have dodged it, he let his chin be caught with gentle fingers. Drift tilted Blurr's head up, giving him a good look at the overlapping bite marks on his neck. 

He let go. “Are you alright, Blurr?”

The racer snorted a laugh and eased back to get the tea and pass it over to Drift. “More than. And I'd think you would know enough about how I like it not to worry over a few passion nips.”

“I can see the repainted patches from here,” Drift acknowledged mildly. He sipped his tea, hummed his appreciation of the blend, then continued. “More scratches and bites, I’m guessing. But those aren't passion nips. They look like Decepticon claiming marks.”

Blurr shrugged as he took a treat and chewed. He was really pleased with how it came out. All of his treats on offer had turned out nice but these were very good. “Yeah, well, he likes to play at possessiveness, and I already had him figured for a 'Con.” Blurr leaned his elbows on the bar and winked at Drift. “You should see me when we're just finished. I leave my neck alone, but the rest gets polished out. Fragger's literally carved his name into me.” He chuckled again — it was amusing  _ now _ — and took another treat. They weren't meant to be all that nutritious, so Blurr straightened and poured himself some tea as well, adding in a light dusting of copper to it.

Drift frowned lightly. “It doesn't look like playing to me.”

He arched an optic ridge and sipped his tea, and really took in Drift's expression. “You're actually really worried.” Blurr knew Drift cared, they were friends and had had each other's backs in some really harrowing situations. If Drift was worried — especially with his history of being a 'Con once upon a time — then Blurr wouldn't just dismiss it. “Why?”

“It's a mark of ownership, not a game we played.” Drift traced out nonsense patterns (or prayer glyphs, for all Blurr knew) on the bar top. “It was real and it was violent. That mech thinks he owns you, and … Decepticons aren't usually very nice to their playthings.”

“He doesn't really think he owns me,” Blurr said and went back to polishing the glasses, lining them up just so, trying not to sound too defensive. He didn’t like that Drift thought Ricochet would— “It's for fun. We discussed all of it. He even stays cabled up and holds me until I wake after a session.” All the way until morning usually, and then even stayed with Blurr for energon and clean up. After several weeks, Blurr thought they might even be becoming something like friends. He met Drift's optics seriously. “He's good to me, Drift. Hasn't once stepped over a line I've drawn, and doesn't just frag me and ditch me to reel in the aftermath.” As had happened too many damn times for Blurr to count.

“Alright.” Drift's gaze was gentle and serious. “You know you can come to us for help, right? I know you can take care of yourself, but I wanted to make sure.”

Blurr bristled, plating visibly shifting before clamping tighter as his body reacted beyond control to the anger. He almost didn't catch himself before dropping into a fighting stance, and then it took an effort to shake it off and unclench. “Do you really think I'd let anyone get away with hurting me?” he demanded, voice almost growling as he placed the glass he'd been wiping on the shelf a bit harder than necessary. Blurr shook his head. “He's actually decent to me, Drift. To me. Never mind that it's all just for kicks. He's not getting his and running away from my annoying, clingy aft the moment he can yank his cables free. And he's only doing what I let him do to me. He's never pushed. He's never guilt-tripped me. I know the damn difference between being abused and being dominated within what I like, and I don't pick lovers on what they—”

Blurr cut himself off, knowing he was pushing a line that could hurt his friend, and Drift caring about him didn't deserve that kind of response. “I don't even know why I'm so mad at you,” he grumbled and scrubbed at his own face with the drying cloth.

Drift placed a careful hand on Blurr's wrist, light as a feather. “I am not judging you for what you like, but I remember wearing and inflicting marks like that and it was never 'play'. It wasn’t a kink. So I wanted to make sure you were okay.” He smiled, and Blurr caught a flash of Decepticon fangs. “I'm glad he's being good to you.”

Blurr sighed and shook his plating out of the last of the clamp it'd gone into. “Sorry.” He offered a bit of a grin back. “It is play though. He never goes so deep that I couldn't polish or buff the marks out myself if I wanted to.” Blurr waved his free hand at his neck. “I leave these because I want them there. It's not a concession for him, I just like …” He shrugged. “I guess I appreciate him enough to want people to know I'm with someone. I don't doubt for a second he'd stop if I asked him too, and I don't think he'd be at all upset if I did choose to clean up the marks.” Maybe Blurr should put that to the test. That and it'd leave a nice shiny surface for Ricochet to mark right back up. He grinned and topped off Drift's tea. “Anyway. Sorry. I don't know why I reacted that way.”

“Forgiven.” Drift withdrew his hand and sipped his tea. “You sound like you're getting attached.”

“Primus! Don't say that! He'll run to the other side of the planet and I'll never get laid so thoroughly again!” Blurr said with a laugh. “Ricochet 'doesn't do' long term. And that's fine. I'm not looking for anything more than what we have. It's just … nice, that he's not just using me.”

“And now the name of your mysterious paramour,” Drift teased lightly. “Ricochet, hmm? I don't know him.”

“What?” Blurr asked, feigning surprise. “Don't all you 'Cons and ex-'Cons know each other?” he teased back. Granted, if they weren't alone, and Blurr didn't know just how far he could rib Drift about his past, he'd never have said such a thing. But Blurr did know, so he popped another treat into his mouth and grinned across the bar. “Maybe he joined after you kicked Turmoil's teeth in?” 

The truth was, Blurr knew next to nothing about Ricochet's past, and it hadn't occurred to him before this very moment that maybe that was a bit odd. Not all mechs liked to talk about their history, but everything Blurr had guessed at had come from Ricochet’s skillset, or actions, not anything he’d said.

“There wasn't anyone left to recruit by then and you know it,” Drift sang back in a lilting, lighthearted scold. “But you're right. I didn't know everyone. There just aren't that many survivors, so it's not often I run into someone I really don't know, and even then, they're usually ‘Bots.”

Blurr nodded and went back to his glasses, almost finished with them. “I think he was spec ops. So far he's managed to track me down every time I've hidden.” He glanced up at Drift and smirked. “He likes 'hunting', and I like being caught. And he's silent. I mean … Jazz and Mirage levels of silent when he wants to be.”

“That would make sense then. I heard that a lot of the minor, less infamous 'Cons in that work changed their name right as the truce was signed so they wouldn't have to register their war crimes.” Drift drummed his fingers on the table, and then finally took a cake. The first disappeared into his subspace so smoothly that Blurr would have missed it if he hadn't been expecting it — Drift always stashed food before he ate it — and he nibbled daintily on the second like a Towers brat. “Of course everyone's been officially pardoned, but no one forgets what Soundwave's capable of for a moment.”

“As if war isn't a crime in and of itself,” Blurr snorted and set the last glass on the shelf. “As if dropping me behind enemy lines to go plant bombs and kill mechs in their recharge was somehow better.” 

“We had to be pardoned too, but … most of Decepticon spec ops were interrogation specialists. You could argue there's no real difference between hacking and killing, but … well, there'd be a lot of mechs to argue with.”

“Rape or murder,” Blurr said. “I'd rather not experience either, thanks. Rather not commit either, but …” No, he was not going to let himself get maudlin over it. “It's over at least, and I don't really care that he was a 'Con. It  _ has _ to not matter now.”

“As long as he continues to treat you well,” Drift promised with just a touch of dark viciousness, “then it doesn't.” 

“Here.” Blurr ducked down and pulled up the ethyl and a decanter of pre-sweetened regular grade energon. “Ever have an icy?” Two glasses were set on the counter and Blurr filled them only half full before aiming the wand for the ethyl canister into the bottom and triggering it. The energon foamed and frothed and filled the glass the rest of the way. He tossed a spoon in one and slid it over to Drift. “I decided after Ricochet mentioned liking these, that I should have more non-intoxicating things to offer.”

“Besides tea.” Drift took his gingerly, holding it up to the light to watch the bubbles work their way through the energon slush. “It looks interesting.” He sipped it and Blurr saw his optic ridges lift in surprise. “That's definitely interesting.” Drift sighed, tipped his glass back and forth.

It really was. Blurr shrugged and set his glass down to reach for the iron filings. Not his usual favorite, but he found himself craving them and knew enough about first aid to figure it was probably from how he'd been taxing his systems of late. He grinned, spark picking up a bit in pulse rate. Ricochet was going to come for him tonight at some point, Blurr just didn't know when.

Drift clinked the lip of his glass against the edge of Blurr's. “To happiness.”

Blurr smiled. “And a better future than our past.” He checked his chrono and then looked around the bar. Everything was ready. The gelled goodies were setting up, the highgrades were arranged, and everything was clean. “As far as I know, he's going to meet me tonight. Not sure where yet though. I try not to plan where I'll hide before I'm out on the road.”

“You could just outrun him,” was Drift’s opinion.

“Any time I wanted,” Blurr said with a laugh. “But where's the fun in that? I make the whole hunting bit challenging enough for him, and he's revved by the time he finds me. Then I benefit.”

In fact, he was probably watching from some sniper’s nest on a nearby building right now, waiting for Blurr to leave before he picked up his trail.

“Not what I’d call fun, but you do you.” Drift smiled again.

“Uh-huh.” Blurr leaned forward on his elbows again and let his aft rock from side to side. “Bet you're a toxicougar in the berth. Kinky fragger behind a locked door pretending at being boring,” he teased.

“And you’ll never know because I don’t do that anymore,” Drift chided gently.

“Alas,” Blurr said and heaved his best forlorn sigh. “Guess it's okay though, Ricochet keeps me plenty entertained.”

“Good.” Drift ran his finger around the edge of his glass. “You’re attractive enough, but you’re no protector and … well, I couldn’t separate what I deserved from how I’d been treated. I had to stop, or else I just would have continued my self-destructive, and just generally destructive, patterns.”

Blurr reached over and tapped the backs of his knuckles on Drift's arm. “Good for a cuddle anytime though. Friends cuddle. Even Whirl says it's okay if it's friends and not mushy slag.” He snickered and tipped his glass up to finish off the slushy before snagging an oil cake. “Here.” The plate was nudged toward Drift. “Take those last few before I eat them all.”

“Of course friends never do mushy slag.” Drift laughed softly. He took a cake and nibbled it, and Blurr pretended not to notice when he surreptitiously subspaced the rest.

“Never.” Blurr took the plate and their glasses and turned toward the sink at the back to rinse them quickly.

“I'm doing freebie samplers tomorrow so everyone can get a taste of what I'll have, so come back.” Blurr turned and leaned back against the counter as he dried the plate. “If something's bad, I want to know.”

“Ooh. Freebies.” Drift laughed and finished off his drink. “I’m not sure you should trust my judgment on the quality though.” 

Blurr laughed. Drift might like ridiculously expensive energon teas, but Blurr had seen him just as happy to drink engine sludge. “I get that your superpower is being able to survive off anything put in front of you, but I know you can tell the difference between what tastes good to you and what tastes bad.”

“We’ll see because I’m definitely coming.”

“You better.” 

“Like I was going to pass up free food?” 

Blurr put away the last glass, checked his chrono again, then shooed Drift toward the door with a wave. “I'm going to kick you out for now though, so I can lock up and go find a place to hide from my cute little 'Con.” He grinned. “And he is cute. I mean, definitely sexy. But really cute. And I want him to find me early enough tonight so I can be sure I'm polished to a mirror shine all over for tomorrow's opening.”

Drift laughed allowing Blurr to herd him out the door. “Tell your ‘cute’ ‘Con that if he hurts you, I’m going to stab him in the face a few dozen times.”

“Will do.” Blurr laughed and followed Drift to the door, making sure it was properly locked. He had a way out the back, and the alarm would be set from there. Lower lip caught between his teeth in excitement, Blurr gave Maccadam's one last look, then headed into the storage room where the back exit was. Looking around, Blurr’s plating almost fluffed up in pride. He’d moved most of the stuff from his townhouse here and seeing the supplies lined up neatly on their shelves made him almost giddy. It was happening. He really was opening tomorrow!

He both was, and wasn’t, expecting to be grabbed from behind and pressed up against a wall. “I’m ‘cute’, huh?”

Blurr purred and pushed back against Ricochet, familiar warmth flooding through him. “I've said so directly to you before. How long were you back here? And I guess you overheard the shovel talk he wanted me to pass along?”

“It was adorable,” Ricochet laughed. With familiar, practiced movements he pulled Blurr’s hands behind his back and locked them into a pair of stasis cuffs. The staticky rush of a weak stasis field flooded Blurr’s sensors. He wasn’t sure where Ricochet had gotten the cuffs, but they were the real deal. “It’s never happening, but it’s just darling that he thinks he can stab me in the face.” He preened. By now, Blurr knew better than to take Ricochet’s bragging seriously. According to him, he was the best in a fight and no one could ever be better than him. He’d never heard the mech claim directly that he could take Megatron or Optimus or a Phase Sixer in a fight, but Blurr wouldn’t be surprised to find he believed he could.

_ “You're _ adorable,” Blurr shot back, wriggling again. “Cuffs are new. And you didn't give me a chance to run.” He wasn't at all bothered by this turn of events, but Blurr was curious. “Are we doing something different tonight?”

“You’ll see.” With Blurr all nice and trussed up, Ricochet pushed him towards the door. “Ain’t going far,” he assured before Blurr could protest being dragged out in public in cuffs. “Got us all set up in the next building. Didn’t wanna carry you across town.”

Blurr only hesitated a moment, but he let Ricochet lead him outside. But while Ricochet locked up the bar and set the alarm, Blurr did, however, crane his neck around to be sure no one was looking and would to come interrupt. That would be a shame, and Blurr wasn't completely sure Ricochet wouldn't stab the faces of anyone foolish enough to disturb them. It … hadn’t happened yet, but Ricochet had taken the restriction against humiliating Blurr seriously and given how cavalier the mech seemed about killing, stabbing some passerby to protect Blurr from being seen in a humiliating position didn’t seem beyond the realm of possibility. 

Frag, what had he gotten himself into?

Well, for now, it seemed like he was in the broken warehouse across the alley from the bar. Blurr had actually looked at this one when seeking a location to put his new Maccadam’s and decided it needed too many repairs. It had looked good at first, but the roof was more hole than roof, and on one side a wall had completely fallen over. Inside, most of the crates and shipping containers had disintegrated with time, and those that hadn’t had been broken, tipped over, and tossed haphazardly by scavengers, both sentient and not. Apparently, it was enough for Ricochet’s plans. Blurr was guided — a little more roughly now that they were out of sight again — around a pile of crates he only belated realized had recently been restacked and got his first look at Rico’s plans for the night. 

A tarp was spread out over the floor, and arranged around it were bottles of topcoat remover, brand new brillo pads and brushes, buckets of solvent, and cans containing a new nanite solution in Blurr’s colors.

Blurr blinked, tripping over his feet in surprise. “You're giving me a full detail?” he guessed. “Or … oh. Are you planning something that's going to require a full detailing and repaint after?” He shivered and went unresisting as Ricochet led him over. “Is this a color night or just safewords?”

“Just safewords is fine.” Ricochet pushed him roughly to his knees. “Gonna strip off all your paint nanites the hard way before I put new ones back on.”

Another shudder ran through Blurr and he had to bite back a moan. “Okay,” he said faintly and knelt where he was left, though he did turn his head to watch Ricochet, still curious. He had mentioned toys and tools that had been used on him before, but Blurr hadn't bothered to request any yet, happy to leave as much control as possible in Ricochet's hands. So far he’d decided against anything beyond his own fangs and claws, some ropes, but had said that  _ someday _ he’d take Blurr up on the offer of toys. They were easing into the painplay in a way that felt… nice. Considerate even. He knew Ricochet wanted more — he’d  _ asked _ about it during their negotiation — but so far he’d kept it a minor aspect of their play.

Blurr hadn’t expected their first, complicated scene to be like this. As his toys and tools, Ricochet had chosen a simple abrasive pad and gritty soap. Blurr watched him build up a lather, his fans slowly ramping up when he thought of just how much scrubbing it was going to take to get all of his paint off like that. He’d done erotic detailing before, but those had all been gentle, lavish service-sub scenes, and he’d been the one stripping off and painting on someone’s nanite coat. This was going to be something new.

“If you wiggle,” Ricochet warned, “I'm just going to have to hold you down.” 

Then he got started.

Blurr tried to remain still at first, he really did, but this was a new and rather inventive form of pain. In the past, a full refinish would mean a dip in remover after numbing his sensory suite. This was … different. Pits, Blurr wasn't even sure he was liking it until his vents switched into a higher speed to try to cool his frame. Then the buzzing through his nerve wires became recognizable as gathering charge, but it was still just different.

“Ricochet …” Blurr whimpered and squirmed away against his own will.

The mech made a sound somewhere between a chuckle and a growl and pressed him down into the wet tarp and pinned him to keep him still while he scrubbed the paint from his shoulders.

Blurr whined and fought against the urge to move, but he really wasn't the best at holding still unless a life depended on it. It wasn't long at all before he writhed, feet slipping over the wet tarp as he pushed and tried to escape the too-much dragging and swirling over his sensornet. The wetness kept him from gaining any real purchase, and Blurr arched his head back and keened. His frame was far too confused. It felt good. It was unbearable. He wanted more. He needed it to stop. But just before he'd beg off, call his safeword, Ricochet would move on to the next spot and start it all over again.

It left Blurr pinned to the edge of an overload, gasping, sobbing, begging, and unable to tip that last bit into release. Ricochet purred, beyond satisfied. His EM field — aroused and spiking with pleasure every time Blurr begged — smothered him like a wet blanket.  _ Sree, scree, scree _ the pad scraped against his plating in short, hard strokes, too much, not enough, pain, pleasure, painpleasurepain—

Blurr screamed, frustration in the sound, and thrashed. “Please! Please! Rico!” He rarely shortened the mech's name, but all the syllables were too complicated for Blurr just then. He kicked and twisted, his internals feeling like molten slag, his plating scraped raw. Blurr gave another sob. “Please,” he whimpered.

“I don't hear a safeword,” Ricochet sing-songed like a  _ sadist _ and moved onto Blurr's legs and feet.

Blurr screeched, one foot kicking out desperately and uselessly as the brillo scraped over his more sensitive legs. He didn't want to stop, he just wanted to overload, but it wasn't deep enough! He fought for another timeless moment as Ricochet worked over his legs, screamed again, then let his body go limp.

He'd been in pain before, and although Blurr hadn't used this particular trick with a partner in a very long time, he tried it now. His frame still shook, but Blurr forced himself to stay as loose as possible, then chased the pain. If he could just get on top of the sensation. If he could just —

Ricochet dumped the bucket of solvent on Blurr, washing away the soap and grit and paint-nanite flakes, and dousing him in a sudden shock of cold/not-pain!

Blurr's optics snapped open, blazing white, but not from release. “The frag?!” He screamed in fury, kicked and struggled to get away, but everything was far too slick and slippery for him to get out from under Ricochet's weight.

Ricochet laughed. “You're going to overload here with me or not at all.” He leaned in, pressing Blurr harder into the wet floor.

Blurr shook hard enough that his plating began to chime. “What?” he asked, anger melting into confusion, but Ricochet was warm and solid and oh so close, so Blurr arched up and squirmed for more contact. The dowsing had jolted him, but now as the water either warmed or evaporated off him, the humming, electric need came back, and he whimpered, lost and needy.

“Come on. I know what it looks like when a mech starts turning inward.” Ricochet leaned down, seemingly abandoning the brillo pad for a long gentle screeee of his claws down Blurr's back. “Here, with me.”

“Am!” Blurr gasped, flinching at the scratch, his sensornet spasming.

But it still wasn't enough.

Blurr whimpered again. “Please,” he whispered. “Rico, please. I need … It  _ hurts.” _

A hot-wet line of pure pleasure licked up the edge of one of his helmwings.

Blurr shivered hard, keening. “Yes! Yes, more!” He twisted and writhed and hooked his legs around Ricochet's in an attempt to keep the mech close. He teetered on the edge, but willing himself to fall wasn't enough. “Close,” he whispered and arched, trying to rub his plating against Ricochet's for just that much more sensation.

Ricochet obliged. Rubbing and scratching over-sensitive plating, digging his fingers into the gaps to trace sparks over Blurr’s myomer substructures. The hum ratcheted up to a tingle, and Blurr sucked in a breath, hands fisted under his back where they were still bound by the cuffs. He shivered all over again at Ricochet's touches, then finally,  _ finally _ tripped into overload. The charge swept over him like a wave, growing in strength until he was left screaming and sobbing Ricochet's name.

Limp and spent, Blurr barely noticed as Ricochet dragged them both to a dry edge of the tarp and wrapped him in a pair of fluffy, dry, warm towels. He unsubspaced a third for himself, then settled in to curl up with and hold onto Blurr — like he always did.

Blurr burrowed closer, the occasional whimper escaping. He was wrung out and still trembling, and so, so glad Ricochet was still there. “Am I yours?” he asked in a raw whisper. It seemed like it, but tonight Blurr wanted the words too.

“Yes,” Ricochet growled. “All mine.” His hand was warm as he petted Blurr over the towel. “Do you want me to remove the cuffs now?”

“Yeah.” Blurr shifted in an attempt to give Ricochet better access to get the cuffs off but remained pressed close otherwise. He let his relief and gratitude fill his field and laid docile in Ricochet's arms, letting the mech move him as he wished. “Was intense,” he said, words slurring a little.

Ricochet just hummed a note of satisfaction. The light stasis field — which Blurr slowly realized had to have actually dulled the sensation — disappeared as Ricochet took away the cuffs and subspaced them. The aches and rubbed-raw feeling swept over him again, and Blurr wondered if feeling that at full intensity would have been enough for him to overload just from the scrubbing, or if it would have just been unarousing torture. 

“Relax now.” Ricochet laid down with him, warm and there. “We got all night to finish up.”

Blurr gave a weak, half-sparked purr and let himself go limp again, this time reveling in the warm hum of post-overload bliss. “Thank you,” he mumbled into Ricochet's shoulder, sleepy and content. He understood Drift's concerns, but Ricochet really was good to him. “Should always've been this way, huh?” he asked, babbling mostly, but this was so much better than his other flings. “Like bein' yours.”

Ricochet's EM field flared briefly with a feeling of  _ smug/preen _ before it mellowed back down into attentive care, and Blurr's entire warm towel-wrapped frame was cuddled.

Ricochet was right: they could finish up, repaint and polish, later.

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	4. Chapter 4

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Blurr smiled and mixed up a spritzer, still in disbelief at how well the night was going. The surface of the main bar was somewhat less shiny now than it had been earlier, but that was to be expected. Drinks spilled and mechs dropped treats as they gestured and laughed and had a good time. Colored lights glowed and dimmed toward the center of the main floor, leaving the outskirts a bit more shadowy and cozy-intimate feeling, of which a few couples had taken advantage. Now and then, Blurr would go out with another tray of samples and talk to the mechs very much crowding Maccadam's. There were still plenty of open tables, but that was only because most mechs were standing and socializing instead of sitting. In another hour or so, the stage lights would take over, and Jazz would play and sing, and Blurr was looking forward to seeing the dance floor full too.

It was all just so insanely exciting, and Blurr felt like he hadn't stopped moving since he unlocked the doors. Doors that were swinging open again, he noticed. A glance over made his spark skip up into a faster pace and he opened his mouth to call out to Ricochet when Prowl stepped in. Not just stepped in, but linked his obviously polished black forearm with Ricochet's and leaned their heads closer — intimately — together to point toward an empty table. They’d both polished up in fact, their colors as bright and saturated as Blurr had ever seen them. They bumped a little awkwardly and one of Prowl’s doorwings rested briefly against Ricochet’s shoulder as they caught and balanced each other.

Blurr passed off the drink to the mech who'd ordered it and tried to see Ricochet and Prowl sliding into a booth together as anything other than what it looked like.

Because it looked like a date.

They murmured over a single menu, though Blurr had made sure that every table had at least four, leaning in so close sensor horns almost brushed Prowl’s bright red chevron. Ricochet trailed his fingertips over Prowl's white fingers, which prompted a sharp look up from the menu. Ricochet grinned into Prowl's glare, so it must not have been a really angry glare and Ricochet didn't move his hand …

Blurr forced his gaze away and sucked in a breath that didn't help at all. He had known about Prowl and Ricochet, so … so he was being clingy. But another glance at them stung. Ricochet was stroking Prowl’s jawline as he looked into bright blue optics. Weren't they just fragging? Ricochet didn't do commitment, so why a date? Why, if it was just fun, wasn't  _ Blurr _ getting to go on dates?

A mech called for a drink, and Blurr pasted on his best celebrity smile and took the distraction gratefully. Not that it lasted very long, and then he realized that at least one of them was going to have to come up to the bar to order whatever they decided on. He couldn’t just hide from them both all night. 

Primus. He couldn't go on dates with Ricochet now! Maybe it wasn't really serious, but how would Prowl, of all mechs, take to others thinking Blurr was encroaching on his current partner? Did Prowl even know Ricochet was seeing others? He had to, right? Jazz said he did but did Jazz know that Prowl and Ricochet were going on  _ dates? _

An unfamiliar laugh pierced the din and Blurr glanced up to see Prowl cover his mouth, muffling his amusement. 

Now Ricochet had a hand on Prowl's door, petting the dark police stripes.

_ I'm a dirty secret again, _ Blurr thought, then flinched back as a group of mechs burst into laughter down the bar. Another gave him a funny look, so Blurr just shook his head and forced a laugh too.

No. No, he had to get his aft back in line. Ricochet didn't  _ do _ commitment, and Blurr wasn't looking for it either. He had no right to step between them, and no reason to—

Jazz stepped out onto the stage. He’d prettied up for his first performance. Blurr wasn’t sure if his colors were subtly different or if he’d just gotten a detailing like Blurr had. Either way, he’d outlined his shadows and highlights, especially on his face, in temporary paint to keep from being washed out and flattened, and he glittered under the newly installed stage lights. Literally glittered. Somewhere he’d found or made or bartered for a glitter-gloss temp coat on his white and racing stripes just for the occasion. Blurr glanced between him and Prowl, again, where Prowl was looking up at the stage. If Jazz would just get off his aft and make his move, then Prowl wouldn't want to see Ricochet anymore. 

Primus, that was clingy  _ and _ conniving, wasn't it?

Jazz opened up his set with a bouncy, cheerful song. It sounded familiar, and Blurr was sure he could remember what it was if he concentrated. Instead, he did his best to concentrate on serving drinks. Which was what he was supposed to be doing. Because he was the bartender. 

He was not supposed to be watching Ricochet stand and gently drag a clearly hesitant Prowl over to the dance floor. Rico— Ricochet put his hands on Prowl's shoulder and waist, and even from across the room Blurr could see him patiently instructing Prowl on how to— 

Not watching them! 

Blurr stomped on his stupid insecurities and tried to get on with the night, bringing out more goodies to start circulating, mixing drinks. He kept the celebrity smile on his face and forced his hips to sway a little to Jazz’s music. Ricochet's laugh drew his attention again, and this time Blurr saw that they were starting to move a — a little awkwardly — to the music. Prowl had his hand over his mouth again, bashfully covering his chuckles.

Blurr looked up at Jazz again, but he was too much of a professional to show if it bothered him. It had to bother him. It bothered Blurr, which— No, he wasn't jealous because Blurr was fine that Ricochet was interfacing with others. He could go pick any mech in the bar and take that mech home tonight. He and Ricochet had an arrangement, not a relationship. It just stung because — Frag. It was _ Prowl. _ Prowl was smart and pretty, and he likely wasn't as clingy as Blurr. He probably didn't whine for cuddles after a frag.

He saw Drift with a few mechs over in the corner and he contemplated going over there to join them for a few minutes. But no. Drift would pick up on his agitation (by reading his  _ aura, _ or so he claimed), and Blurr wouldn't be able to hide that it was Ricochet-adjacent, and then Drift would try to stab Ricochet in the face and … just best not. Especially since the problem wasn't Ricochet. Ricochet was perfect. 

“Hey Blurr,” Ricochet's voice startled him. “Nice party.”

Blurr turned and his spark tripped right over itself again. He could still feel the brillo scrubbing over his plating. He wanted it again. “Thanks,” he managed, then quickly crammed it all aside, like stepping in front of a camera back in the day. “What can I get for you?” he asked, smile in place and optics not shifting around to look for Prowl at all.

Blurr saw a puzzled frown flit across Ricochet's expression. Then it smoothed out. “A solar sunset,” a layered drink made with a few different mild red-colored highgrade blends and an iron-oxide syrup, “and an ethyl ice slush mixed with a standard racer's recovery blend.”

“One usual and a solar sunset coming up.” Blurr began gathering the ingredients and pushed himself to stay focused on the mixing and not on who the solar sunset was for. Being possessive was Ricochet's thing, and he wouldn't appreciate Blurr getting more clingy than he already was, especially in public and in front of Prowl.

Just to prove he was fine — because he totally was! — Blurr took extra care to float the layers perfectly, then slid it carefully to Ricochet. The slushy was easy, and Blurr mixed that and popped a spoon into it with a flourish. “Have fun,” he said, the wink just sort of happening, but Blurr rolled with it because he was a flirt after all. Before Ricochet had come in, he'd been flirting, teasing, and winking at plenty of mechs.

Ricochet caught Blurr's wrist as he started to turn away. Claws that had been retracted a moment ago pricked against his perfect, glossy armor. Armor Ricochet had been the one to polish to its perfect gloss. “You want me to catch you tonight?” he rumbled softly, almost unheard above the general noise in the room. Blurr shivered at the prick of those claws. He could have Ricochet tonight? “Or help clean up?”

“Which would you prefer?” he asked with a purr, leaning over the bar a bit. Nothing that would be too terribly inappropriate, but Blurr wanted to be sure Ricochet knew he was willing.  _ Anything. _

Ricochet's gaze flicked around the room. “I'll stay and help clean up,” he said. Which was not what Blurr had expected! “Then we’ll go back to your place.”

Blurr blinked but gave a nod. “Okay.” He straightened and smiled, this time for real. If Ricochet was going to stick around, then he wasn't going to be with Prowl. Keeping Prowl from Jazz, that was. “Have fun. I'll see you around closing.”

“I'll be here.” Ricochet squeezed Blurr's wrist gently, then released him to pick up both drinks. He balanced the solar sunset gingerly as he wove through the crowd and back toward the table he and Prowl had claimed.

Blurr beamed and turned toward the mech calling for a drink from farther down the bar. He danced his way down to the beat of Jazz's music. Before the night ended, but after Jazz finished his set, Blurr was going to pin him down and encourage him to just tell Prowl his feelings.

The date still caught his optics whenever Ricochet coaxed Prowl to do something relaxed and … un-Prowl-like. They looked like they were having a good time, and though it was odd to see Prowl having fun, Blurr actually thought it was nice. Was that the plan? Show Jazz that Prowl could have fun? Or was Prowl just finally learning to relax? Either way, it was probably a good thing.

And Blurr got Ricochet for a private after-party.

First, however. Jazz. Blurr was all smiles — and they were real — when Jazz stepped off the stage, already wiping the temp paint off since the highlights and outlines made him look a bit ghoulish in the more normal illumination of the barroom floor. White and black especially did not hold up well under stage lighting without silver highlights and matte grease paint shadows to keep the overpowering lights from flattening a mech’s form. “That was great! How'd it feel up there?”

“Little rusty at first,” Jazz grinned and slung the battered viola down to his side. “Got back into the swing of it pretty quick. Looked like a great crowd. Now,” he nudged Blurr with a shoulder, “we'll just have to see how many come back when you aren't handing out free food.”

“Speaking of.” Blurr offered up a slushy. “New favorite of a good number of mechs.” He wiggled the glass. “I noticed a certain someone in the audience watching you pretty closely~♪“

Jazz snorted and took the glass. Instead of gulping it or spooning it into his mouth, he held it to one overheated sensor horn with a sigh. “Blurr, I want you to actually spend more than two seconds thinking about what you're about to say before it comes out of your mouth.”

“I don't need more than two seconds,” Blurr replied with a laugh and poked Jazz's arm. “If I noticed him watching, you had to have. Or were you trying that hard not to?” Maybe Blurr was laying it on a little thick, but he really had noticed Prowl watching Jazz. Some.

“I was on the  _ stage,”  _ Jazz said like Blurr had processor damage. “Everyone was watching me. He had a date.”

“Yeah. A date he's not going home with tonight,” Blurr replied and planted his hands on his hips. “Never took you for the sort to back down from a challenge. I mean, you said it yourself, Ricochet's not after forever, but you want it, right?”

Jazz paused and then shook his head. “Prowl's going back to the office. He's got some sort of interstellar call he has to make.” He sighed. “It doesn't matter though. Prowl's trying to move on and I have to respect that.”

“Move on from what?” Blurr asked, exasperated, though he kept his voice down because they weren't all that far from the loud mechs still having a grand time — mechs he needed to get back to. “From the mech pining over here for him? Primus, Jazz.”

“Barkeep!” And that was Whirl.

Blurr gave Jazz's shoulder another light push. “Drink that, it'll cool better from the inside. And think about it. Maybe he needs some help on that call, huh?”

“You act like I never talk to him!” Jazz hissed to his back as Blurr hurried to answer Whirl's shout.

Jazz had it so bad, but contrary to popular belief, Blurr did know where to draw a line. He wouldn't approach Prowl — yet. That risked too much in torquing Ricochet off too, and Prowl might not be a complete gear stick anymore, but he wasn't someone Blurr knew well enough to push.

Blurr went back to serving drinks, ran completely out of treats — both the free samples and the ones for sale — and was getting low on ethyl by the time things finally started slowing down. He shouted out  _ last call _ and fielded that rush, but he wasn’t too busy to catch Jazz's gaze when Prowl headed for the door. He tipped his head in a silent suggestion that Jazz should follow Prowl and pounce him!

Jazz just set his mouth in a stubborn line, then smiled at the mech he was talking to in a manner even Blurr could see was fake.

Blurr rolled his optics and began setting the bar to rights. He'd invested in a washing and sterilizing unit, so he hauled all the dirty glasses to the back room to wait for loading once he closed. He also began shifting the bottles he'd emptied or were getting too low to leave out to the back as well. Before he opened tomorrow, he'd have to refill them.

There were only a few mechs left, so Blurr turned down the music and raised the lights. “Sorry mechs. You don't have to go home, as they say, but you can't stay here. See you tomorrow!” Or at least he hoped so. Jazz was right about the lack of freebies. Blurr planned to have some basics always available, but nothing like the spread he'd done for the grand opening.

A pair of arms wrapped around Blurr's waist possessively as the door closed behind the last patron. He automatically tilted his head to the side so that Ricochet could nip his cable and felt the mech's amusement buzzing against his own EM field. Blurr purred and leaned back, letting his optics close for a moment. “Didn't want to look for me tonight?” He wiggled a bit in Ricochet's hold, not really trying to escape but teasing the notion of it. “I could always clean up in the morning.”

“You have treats to bake in the morning,” Ricochet countered. “And you seemed off earlier. Fake smiles.” Claws petted over Blurr’s plating without leaving behind scratches. “Wanted to check-in, make sure everything was fine.”

Blurr blinked, surprised and glad Ricochet was behind him. He opened his mouth to make up something and thought better of it. He couldn't start lying to Ricochet, the mech was too smart and wouldn't fall for it. “Yeah, I'm fine. Maybe a little tired now that things have quieted.” Turning in Ricochet's arms, he draped his own over the mech's shoulders and grinned. “Not  _ too _ tired though, so let me speed clean, and then we can play.”

Ricochet gave Blurr a long, searching look then nodded. “I’ll start wiping down tables. I think you’d rather we play at home tonight though.”

“Oh, would I? Have plans for wearing me the rest of the way out?” Blurr asked and eased back. The sooner they started, the sooner he got Ricochet into his berth, the sooner he could show the mech he was— Well, the sooner they got to the fun stuff.

“Yeah,” was all Ricochet had to say to that. He nibbled Blurr's cables, then slowly released him.

Blurr bit his lower lip, smiling still, and let his fingers brush over Ricochet's arm as he stepped aside. “This shouldn't take too long.” He zipped to the back room, loaded the washer and started it, refilled the bottles he could and put them back, made a quick list on his datapad for which blends he had to make more of, same for the treats, then hurried to scrub the sticky dried energon off the bar itself before moving to turn the chairs and stools up so he could mop before opening. He wasn't using his full speed, wanting to avoid actually exhausting himself, but he did move faster than usual so he could just get it all done.

While he did that, Ricochet wiped down tables and put chairs up. He only had a few done before Blurr himself got to that chore and finished up, but … he was doing it.

Blurr slowed down and stepped back to look the bar over. “Looks like everything survived the opening.” There had been a pair of broken glasses earlier, but that was to be expected. Two mechs had collided while dancing, and Blurr had cleaned that up right then. “Thanks for helping.”

Ricochet shrugged. “I dunno if you're feeling more tired or anxious,” he looked Blurr over as though he could answer the question right there, “so if you wanna race home ahead of me, don't worry about it. I'll catch up.”

Head tilted a little and confusion clear on his face, Blurr finally nodded. “Yeah, okay. Let me lock up, and we can go out the back way then.” He hesitated as he got the front doors coded, then turned. “Are you okay? We don't have to do anything if you don't want to?” Blurr wanted to. He thought he might even need to, but clutching at Ricochet when the mech was maybe not in the mood probably wouldn't help any.

“I want to hunt you down and make you scream like you did last night,” Ricochet said huskily. “But I know better than to do a scene like that so soon after the last one. Plus we're both tired and have stuff to do in the morning. So I'm trying to figure out what you  _ need.”  _ He huffed a noise. “I dunno yet if tired makes you wanna sleep or burn off the last of your fuel and then sleep.”

Blurr's spark tripped over itself yet again, and his mouth worked a little before he found the words. “I want you,” he said simply and tried to temper his tone with a bit of a shrug. Frag. It was so close to those things he’d always wished he could hear from his lovers, and he didn’t want to drive Ricochet away. “Last night was intense, so yes, I suppose we should take it a little easier, but I'm not about to pass up the chance to be under you.” He led the way to the back door and out. “So yes, burn it out of me.”

Ricochet made a pleased, growling sound. His gaze raked over Blurr’s frame again, broadcasting his  _ want. _ He stepped past Blurr so he could lock up while he transformed.

Primus, save him, Blurr thought and shivered. He'd never had anyone drive him as wild as Ricochet did. He stepped onto the road and transformed, and while he did speed a bit, playing at being chased, he didn't try to lose Ricochet. No point wasting time when what Blurr really wanted was to be pinned to his berth and claimed.

Ricochet grabbed him as soon as they were inside Blurr’s future townhouse. He was spun around and pinned by both wrists to the door, his legs kicked apart to keep him off-balance while Ricochet kissed him silly. Blurr whimpered in need and only put up a token struggle, just enough to make Ricochet hold tighter. “Primus, yes. Please,” he gasped. At first, he chased the kiss, but then threw his head back to give Ricochet better access to this throat.

He expected bites, and he got them, but he also got warm, eager kisses. “You’re mine, sweetspark,” Ricochet crooned between touches. “Don’t need the bites, don’t need anything to prove it because I don’t need to prove truth. You’re mine.”

“Yes!” Blurr cried, arching away from the wall to press and rub himself more against Ricochet. “Yours!” Had he had any processing power leftover beyond the rush of pleasure and need, Blurr might have wondered just how much of his and Drift's conversation Ricochet had overheard to say such a thing. “Like the marks. Want others to know.” Blurr clamped his mouth shut on that, hoping it wasn't a step too far or too truthful. He hooked a leg around the back of Ricochet's and tried to pull the mech closer.

Ricochet obliged, pressing their frames together, rearranging Blurr's wrists so he could hold them with one hand, freeing the other to pet and caress. “Yeah … and I worked very hard to shine you up last night. I ain't gonna ruin it so quickly.” Ricochet chuckled. “Not much.” 

That was all the warning Blurr got before Ricochet layered another claiming mark on top of the ones he already had.

Blurr shouted and a minor overload tripped through his systems — not enough to finish him for the night, but charge crackled between his seams and he whimpered Ricochet's name.  _ Ruin me, _ he thought but managed to clench his jaw shut and not voice the words. Need flared through his field though, and Blurr rocked his plating harder against Ricochet's, greedy for all the sensation he could get.

“Don't worry, sweetspark,” Ricochet whispered hoarsely, as though he'd overloaded himself. “I'm not done with you.” He pulled Blurr away from the door by his wrists and practically dragged him to the temporary bedroom.

The only sound Blurr could make was a keening whimper as he stumbled, uncoordinated, to the berth with Ricochet. He let himself fall to the padding and rolled, tugging at his wrists — not to escape, but to try to pull Ricochet over him.

Much more coordinated, Ricochet didn't so much let Blurr pull him along as follow because  _ he _ chose to do so. He settled on top of Blurr and pressed him into the mattress with a self-satisfied purr. Blurr squirmed a bit, but he recognized how well he'd been pinned. Maybe if he'd fought, at all, he could have escaped but now that he was here, Ricochet's greater weight and bulk would make it almost impossible to dislodge him. His wrists were still held tightly. “There we are,” Ricochet murmured gently. “Still good?”

Blurr gave a vague nod and writhed under Ricochet just to feel how solidly he was held. He wound his legs around Ricochet's and arched and tried to pull the mech against him even harder. Soft, desperate sounds escaped with every gasped breath, and had he been able to think at all, Blurr might have been surprised how deep and needy he was so fast and without the harder play that usually took him out of his own head.

Ricochet looked away and Blurr heard a soft curse, but before he could worry about that he was being held down soft and firm, and Rico's free hand was petting his finials … “Nonverbal huh? That's okay,” he assured, again before Blurr could worry that it was wrong. “That's fine. You're beautiful like this.”

Blurr pushed his helm into Ricochet's touch and relaxed under him — in as much as he was able with the charge building and his spark throbbing. He was Ricochet's, and Ricochet wouldn't leave him wanting. Fingers curled and opened reflexively, but Blurr wasn't really struggling. Ricochet thought he was beautiful, and though compliments weren't unheard of, Blurr treasured every single one this mech offered.

“Oh yeah … frag that's hot,” Ricochet purred. “I don't wanna scratch up your armor, so can you loosen it a bit for me? I wanna touch.” Fingers trailed from the finial down to Blurr’s shoulder, lingering on the wider seams of his armor where he could stroke the substructures beneath. Plating loosened immediately at Ricochet's words, and Blurr writhed under him, twisting into the touches and trying to offer himself up even more. Throat bared, port cover unlocked, gaps as open as he could make them, screaming without words or sound as loudly as he could that he was Ricochet's, begging for more, whatever the mech would give him. Blurr's vents ran hard. He was close, could be pushed over so easily, but he didn’t reach for release. There wasn't a single micron of Blurr that didn't shout his submission, and he would wait until given his next overload.

“Oh yes … beautiful and mine.” Ricochet pet and caressed, possessive and gentle despite the claws Blurr could feel. “I want you to overload,” he whispered eagerly. “When you're ready, I want you to. Don't hold back. Primus, you're going to be gorgeous …“

Blurr whimpered, body winding and arching. He soaked in the touches, taking the tacit permission to wait just a little longer, feel just a bit more. Claws dragged along his side, slid behind the piping there, along something deep and sensitive, and Blurr tumbled free. He flew apart, deaf to his own cries, ecstasy rushing through his lines in wave upon wave until he was left floating and only half aware. Ricochet was there, he was safe.

By the time he slowly blinked back to awareness, he'd been bundled up tightly in his own blanket. Restrained, but differently. Warm and gentle. Tight, but  _ safe _ . Ricochet's weight still smooshed the Blurr-burrito into the mattress, and Blurr could feel his engine vibrating soothingly through the layer. 

It was quiet, and Blurr just stared at the darkness, blinking at it until —

“You talking yet?” Ricochet asked softly, not moving or shifting. There. Present. Not leaving.

It took Blurr two vocalizer resets to answer, but a staticky, “Yes,” whispered forth. “Sorry. Don't usually fall that deep without more.” He wriggled, wanting closer despite knowing they were as tangled up and snuggled as he could get. “Must've got me just right tonight.” He gave the direction of Ricochet's voice a cheeky grin. “Must just be that good at it.” Because Blurr had fallen non-verbal often enough to know to warn Ricochet, but everyone else had had to work a lot harder to get him there. It’d never happened without one or both of them intending for it to.

“Relax.” Blurr felt a hand pet soothingly down his frame over the blanket. “I'm not leaving, but I was wondering if you're okay enough for me to fetch us some fuel. Won't move until you are though.”

Blurr purred and nuzzled into Ricochet's shoulder. “I'm okay for that.” He left “so long as you come back” unsaid. There was an urge to shrug the blanket away and clutch at Ricochet, keep him close, but that wasn't because Blurr needed him there if all he was going to do was get fuel and come back. He'd already gone too far once already, and being overly clingy wasn't going to help.

… Not when Prowl had so easily waved goodbye and simply departed.

“I'm going to get us fuel,” Ricochet repeated, rubbing Blurr's side through the blanket. He frowned, then sighed, making some sort of decision. “Count down from thirty at one-second intervals for me. Concentrate. When you get to zero, we'll cuddle all you want for the rest of the night.”

Blurr blinked in confusion at the odd order but nodded. “Okay. Uh … thirty.” He paused, watching his internal chrono. “Twenty-nine …” He had to fight to stay focused on the countdown, spark whirring at the “cuddle all you want” part. It didn't stop him from feeling a bit baffled that he was counting down to start with, but he could do it and continued to speak the numbers out once per second as Ricochet rose and went to gather them energon.

By the time he'd reached “Five …” Ricochet was sliding back onto the bed with two cubes of fuel. Blurr didn't have a bedside table — he hadn't thought he'd need one, much less this quickly — so he balanced the cups on the sheets while he took the last five seconds to rearrange them. Ricochet ended up sitting up, leaning against the headboard while Blurr was leaning against him, head tucked into the crook of his neck. He was still wrapped in the blanket, but more loosely; instead Ricochet held him still with his arm and one leg, cradling him as he reached for the first cube.

“One,” Blurr said, then relaxed as Ricochet brought the cube up. Blurr wormed one hand free, but as the cube was lifted and he registered the position he was in, he simply handed that control back over to Ricochet. Fingers curled lighting over Ricochet's collar faring to hold on and so Blurr could keep his hand free and close if he needed it but he suspected he wouldn't. “Spoiling me,” he said softly.

Ricochet just grunted noncommittally. “Drink this. I think I got the blend right — not quite recovering from a race here — but if I didn't the other one has your usual mix.” He held the cube to Blurr's lips.

Blurr drank without complaint, able to taste the additive packet, but it was fine. It would replenish enough while he recharged, and he could mix himself up a boost if he still needed more in the morning. Nearly done, he moved his hand to poke a finger at the bottom of the cube and tip it up more to get the last of it before letting go.

“Thank you,” he murmured and tucked his face into Ricochet's neck, cheeks feeling just a little warm.

“Need more?” Ricochet set the empty cube aside and reached for the other.

Blurr actually checked his systems to be sure, but then shook his head. “No, I'm good, thanks.” He just wanted to stay exactly where he was for the rest of forever — safe, warm, feeling cared for. Blurr couldn't screw this up. He couldn't take it, or Ricochet, for granted.

“Alright.” Ricochet accepted that and sipped the fuel himself. He didn't finish it though, setting it aside where it wouldn't get knocked over. Then he tucked the blanket around them loosely and put his hand on Blurr's head, pressing him a little closer. “What else do you need?”

“This is good,” Blurr replied and hooked his foot over Ricochet's ankle. “We can lay down more so you're comfortable too?” he offered. “Get a kink in your neck if you recharge sitting like that.”

Ricochet snorted. “Don't worry about me. You wanna sleep, then sleep.”

“Don' wanna be ungrateful,” Blurr said, but he couldn't keep his optics open, and the words were slurring together. He fought to stay awake just a little longer, fingers curling tighter into a gap of Ricochet's armor.

“Sleep.”

Blurr mumbled something — not even he really knew what the jumble of sounds meant — but the next moment he lost his battle and dropped into recharge.

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	5. Chapter 5

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Somehow, even though it'd never happened before, and Ricochet had always been there in the morning, Blurr had sort of expected to wake up alone. He didn't.

Ricochet had rearranged them into a more comfortable recharge position at some point. He was sprawled out halfway on top of Blurr, arms wrapped around him to keep him close, nestled into a nest of blankets. His field fuzzed out, soft and warm and content, and Blurr let himself drift there, only just awake and perfectly happy to laze about in the berth for a bit longer. He could wake like this every day and never get sick of it. Sprawled out on his own was fine, but he liked how tight Ricochet held him. Like even in recharge, Ricochet wanted to be sure Blurr knew who he belonged to. He purred, the sound still rough from sleep, and managed to free a hand to wind around Ricochet's waist. 

The movement caused Ricochet to jolt awake, but after getting his bearings, he didn't do anything but groan and tighten his grip, burying his face into Blurr's shoulder.

Blurr chuckled and nuzzled Ricochet's helm. “Morning, gorgeous. Want some breakfast? Get you anything you like.” He'd divided the supplies between his home and bar just so he wouldn't have to be at the bar too early and could make treats in the comfort of his home.

“Don't suppose you have a breakfast blend yet?” Ricochet grumbled, clutching Blurr tighter.

“Technically, I have like four— five?” Blurr shrugged a little and curled his fingers into a plating gap to lightly pet at Ricochet's substructure. “Want a sampling? After last night, you deserve being spoiled back a bit,” he added, though the leer in his voice was tempered by just how much he meant the words. “Got oil cakes too.”

“Just breakfast mix. Mixmaster's is the best, but I'll take Perceptor's.” Still, Ricochet didn't let him go. “Stop trying to rile me up. We both got stuff to do today.”

“Are you suggesting I have to _try_ to rile you up?” Blurr asked teasingly and dragged his lips along a sensor horn ever so lightly. He really wasn't angling for another round. In fact, he was still incredibly sated and knew that he'd need to get moving soon enough to start the day's work. “You have a match today?”

Ricochet snorted and just moved his head, finally letting Blurr go to roll over and flop back down on the bed. “Yeah. Then doing a favor for a friend. Might not be back tonight. That okay?”

Blurr briefly wondered what would happen if he said no and asked Ricochet to come to him instead, but favors for friends were important, and he was not that ridiculously needy. “Of course. If you get time though, toss me a quick text after your match?” He leaned over and brushed a light kiss to Ricochet's cheek, then stayed there, voice deliberately lowered next to the mech's audial. “We both know you'll win, but let me know what kind of prize you want from me for kicking aft.”

Ricochet laughed. “Can do that.” He ran a possessive hand over Blurr's head, avoiding the main sensor there. “How are you feeling after last night?”

Blurr laughed and dipped for one last kiss before pulling back. If he didn't get moving, he really was going to crawl right back into the berth. “So good mechs are going to be asking my secret.” He headed for the kitchen area and pulled out Mixmaster's Famous Breakfast Blend (copyright pending), and began mixing a cube for himself and Ricochet. “You good? I know last night went a bit weird. That doesn't usually happen that easily,” which Blurr vaguely recalled saying already, but he could have dreamt it.

“I'd wondered,” Ricochet sat up and stretched, showing off his flexible frame. “Good or bad thing it happened now?”

Blurr returned, optics tracing Ricochet's bodywork appreciatively as he moved. “I'd say good, honestly. It was unexpected, but I knew I was safe with you. And now you've seen how I get, so if — well when — it happens when we're playing harder, you'll know.” He offered one of the cubes and sat beside Ricochet. 

“Can you still safeword?” Ricochet held the cube, swirled the energon in the container to watch the various flakes of additives circulate through the liquid.

“Not in words, but I've used hand signals before.” Drawing in his thumb and smallest finger, Blurr straightened the other three, holding them close together. “This is 'stop'. It means you'll have to check my hands now and then. I might be able to change to a different gesture if you want, but I've used this for ages. It's not something I do accidentally like splaying fingers or clenching my fist. I can usually nod coherently enough, but I've been told shaking my head looks too much like happy thrashing, so that can't really be trusted as a no.”

Ricochet eyed the gesture. “No that's perfect. Simple, unique. I was gonna ask if you know the ball-drop method but that works.”

“I know it,” Blurr said and chuckled a little. “I just can't manage to hold onto the damn thing.” He opened and closed his fist in illustration. “Do this too much apparently. It was forever ago, but I had one mech record me while he deliberately put me deep. It's surreal. I can usually remember everything right up to overload, but it's all kind of dreamlike.” He considered how to say what he wanted to while sipping his energon. “That was practically a normal 'face, so I really don't know why I dropped down so fast or hard,” Blurr said at length. “I'm fine with it. I trust you. But that means it might happen more?” He shrugged. “I can sometimes resist it if I realize it's happening before I get too deep.”

Ricochet held out his hand and then used it to tug Blurr closer, back into the bed, when he took it. “Nope. It's fine.”

Blurr drained his energon then curled up against Ricochet's side. The minutes were ticking down to when he had to start prepping, but there was still a little time left. He poked a finger into Ricochet's side, tickling despite the absolute lack of response. “Strokes that ego of yours doesn't it?” he teased.

Ricochet's hand petted Blurr's head possessively, holding on just enough to bring his gaze up to meet Ricochet's own. “That Blurr — racing champion, Wrecker, the brave new world's shiny darling — is a mewing cyberkitten in the hands of a complete nobody? That you are mine? Frag yes.”

Blurr snickered and leaned in to nip at Ricochet's jawline. “Feel free to show it now and then.” The words were out without yielding by the stop sign, and Blurr forced himself to stay lax and calm, not panic over pushing too far. “I mean, not like grabbing and 'facing me senseless in a crowd. I wouldn't mind, but audience consent is important.” He grinned and curled his fingers a little deeper. “But if it wouldn't cause trouble, I wouldn't be unhappy for mechs to know where I'm getting these pretty marks.”

“Yeah?” Ricochet seemed pleased by the idea. “Does that mean I should make some Property of Ricochet stickers?”

Blurr snorted a laugh and gave Ricochet a light push. “Stickers itch! Primus!” he said, laughing again. “So my sponsor — that's what we, racers, called our owners — once decided that I should advertise for some business venture he'd become involved in. You know, like the cheap racers who were owned by corporations?” He shook his head. “I got through half a practice run and had to stop and peel the fragging things off. With help, of course, because they were all over my back where I couldn't reach. And then, because I was running short on practice time, had to get out there and run with the adhesive sitting on my plating.” Blurr shivered a bit and rolled away only enough to rub his back against the blankets to get rid of the phantom itch. “He was so mad I took them off, but I threatened to throw the race if he made me wear them ever again.”

Ricochet snickered. “I'll figure something else out then.”

“Bet you will.” Blurr rolled back in and stole the last few minutes he could before tipping his head back to kiss Ricochet's chin. “Much as I don't want to move, I need to get the goodies started.”

Ricochet's claws traced down Blurr's spinal struts. “Yeah. Go ahead.”

Blurr grinned and pushed back, amused that Ricochet tended to take so many of his comments as permission-seeking. They weren't in a scene, and Blurr hadn't exactly been asking, but then … Ricochet was so damn considerate of him and checking in with him, it just seemed right. The mech had asked, after all, if it was okay that he wouldn't be by tonight. Besides, if Ricochet had said no and held on, Blurr would have stayed willingly.

“I think my next big purchase will be the oven,” Blurr said as he crossed the room, empty glasses in one hand. “There's the one at the bar itself, but now that Maccadam's is open, I'd like a full-sized one here too.” He gestured with his free hand at the taped out marks on the floor, then looked back over his shoulder. “Any special requests for when I get to my berthroom? Rings on the ceiling for ropes? The walls maybe?”

“You'd look, mmm, very nice,” Ricochet leered, “on either. How about a collar instead of stickers?”

Blurr's knees went so suddenly weak at the flash image of Ricochet locking a collar around his neck, that he almost missed his grab at the table to stay upright. Glass ground together as his fingers tightened, and it took Blurr a moment of simply breathing before he could find his voice again. “Yeah—” He coughed and shook himself out, straightening. “Collar would be nice. Something a little subtle though. You know, nothing garish or like … ostentatious.” Something he could wear in public that might look like jewelry to a mech who didn't know and wouldn't do more than raise an optic ridge of one who did.

Ricochet's grin was all teeth. “How can I resist a pretty offer like that?”

“Smug fragger,” Blurr tried to grumble, but he ended up laughing instead. The glasses were set in the sink, and he went about gathering all the supplies he'd need to gel more goodies and make the batches of oil cake bites to cook once he got to Maccadam's. “What's your schedule like tomorrow night?”

“Hmm, supposed to check in with someone early afternoon, might run to evening, but you want me to come and find you after you close down the bar for the night?”

“If you're free by then,” Blurr said, keeping his tone casual. “How about, I'll give you a ping just as I'm locking up behind the last mech out, and you have until I leave to ping me back if you're going to hunt me.” He glanced over his shoulder with a grin. “That way I know whether I should run or just come home and take care of it myself. All alone~♪“

“I could just spy on you through these windows.” 

Blurr grinned. “You certainly could. I wouldn't mind at all.” Pits. That was actually hot. Blurr wouldn't even need to be sure Ricochet was out there, just the thought that he could be was enough. Not the best, but plenty. “I could put on a show for you.” 

Ricochet stood and stretched again, first by reaching over his head toward the ceiling, then by touching each hand to the opposite foot. Then by grabbing both of his ankles to arch his back until something popped softly and he moaned. “Ugh … I don't want to keep you up though. You should hire a cook, first thing.”

“I'm not hiring a cook. I'm the cook. The whole point of opening a bar and hoping it gets busy enough that I need to hire bartenders and wait staff is so that I can cook more.”

Ricochet pouted. Then he stalked, sensuous and predatory, over to Blurr and drew him into a kiss.

Blurr moaned into that kiss, leaning in as his head spun a little in dizzy delight. “Plan to retire eventually though,” he mumbled against Ricochet's lips, his fingers finding gaps to hold the mech in close. He _hadn’t_ had any retirement plans, but if Ricochet was going to be _that_ cute, and his kisses _that_ convincing, he’d change his mind. Even if Ricochet was mostly teasing, Blurr was suddenly seeing the benefits of not working in the mornings.

“Sounds like a plan,” Ricochet chuckled. “Happy cooking.” He released Blurr with one last caress. “I'll let you reset the lock code again.”

“Stronger security system _then_ heating unit,” Blurr teased, still grinning as Ricochet saw himself to the door.

“Won't help~♪,” Ricochet sing-songed back as he left.

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◇─◇──◇──◇─◇

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Blurr was still waiting for Ricochet to send him a serious suggestion for a “prize” for winning his Rage Cage match. The first had been just so … _overblown_ that it had been more hilarious than lewd. Blurr had told him that, in those exact words, and his response had been a text with an image of just the most ostentatious, overblown collar Blurr could imagine having once worn for a Towerling. Again, more hilarious than lewd, and he’d texted back that a human padlock (jewelry sized for a transformer) would be cheaper and easier to get. Ricochet’s response to _that_ had been a collar suggestion that (somehow) was even more ostentatious and weird. 

Laughing at his lover’s antics, and wondering just where the frag he was finding the pictures, Blurr was in a good mood.

Maccadam's wasn't quite “hopping” (yet!) but several mechs who'd been there last night had returned. And not just because they were his friends, though Drift was over in the corner with an energon tea and a bookfile. Blurr was feeling gooood. Very good. So good that more than ~~Drift~~ one mech had commented on how happy he looked.

Blurr heard Jazz in the backroom as he arrived, glanced around the bar to be sure everyone was good for the moment, then slipped to the back. He left the door open in case anyone called out. “Hey, music mech. Might be a tamer crowd tonight for a bit.”

“Aww … I was hoping for it to be rowdier.” Jazz grinned anyway. He still didn't have a proper case for the viola (actually, Blurr wasn't sure where he'd even gotten an intact, if slightly damaged, viola at all) and carried it wrapped in layers of cloth. He already had his stage paint on. “You look cheerful.”

“I'm always cheerful, particularly after being spectacularly fragged within a micron of my sanity.” Blurr grinned and gave Jazz a poke in the shoulder. “You should try it sometime. I know a hot little Praxan number who I bet would pop his panels for you if you just asked him.” Subtle? No. Blurr rarely bothered with subtle, and Jazz would see it coming a mile away. In fact, he'd probably known why Blurr was all but walking on clouds, and set himself up. Jazz wanted to be convinced. Or needed it maybe. Maybe he needed to hear that it was alright for him and Prowl to start something up finally.

“Stop it. I told you: Prowl's moving on, doesn't want me.” Jazz unwrapped the viola and set the cloth aside, plucked a few strings. _Ting. Ting. Ting!_ “I'd rather stay friends than push my feelings on him when they're clearly not wanted.”

Blurr cycled his vents and dropped all the teasing. “He said that?” he asked and stepped closer. Not that Blurr could credit it. He had seen Prowl staring up at Jazz the night before, and the expression on his face hadn't looked like he didn't want Jazz.

“He's with Ricochet, as you know,” Jazz said, pulling out the bow and starting to re-tune the instrument. “Rico might have a dozen flings at a time, but Prowl's not the kind to stray.”

“Is it straying if there's no commitment?” Blurr asked and shook his head. “Come on, Jazz. If you haven't asked him, how do you know he wouldn't drop Rico in a spark pulse to be with you? They're clanging, not serious, because Ricochet doesn't do serious.” Which dampened some of his own giddy happiness because that meant, eventually, Ricochet was going to move on from Blurr too. “You waited a whole war, mech.”

“I waited a whole war and I waited too long, Blurr. He's, I don't know, but he's got some plan, already, for what to do after Rico. I want to stay his friend.”

“Then interrupt it!” Blurr swung his arms out. “Primus, Jazz. You love him! Isn't that worth trying for?” He bit out a curse as one of the mechs at the bar called his name and pointed a finger at Jazz. “I'm not going to let you torture yourself.” It was a threat, but Blurr didn't know if he had the guts to run up against Prowl, Jazz, and probably Ricochet all at once.

Plastering on a smile, Blurr returned to the front to serve the drink, mixing fast so he could try to get back and catch Jazz again. Frag. When had he started caring about Jazz instead of seeing him as an antagonist? When had he decided the mech was his friend and really deserved happiness instead of just including him in the nebulous “everyone should be happy” ideology?

He got back in time to see Jazz finish up a stretch that looked kind of familiar before taking up the viola again. He tested it, running up one scale and then down another with the bow, and seemed satisfied with the thing's performance. “Time for my set?”

Blurr sighed. “Just about, but you can start early if you want. Need a drink first? I have just enough ethyl to make a handful of slushies. I'll hold you back one for after if you'd prefer?” He wasn't going to get anywhere with Jazz closed off like that. Maybe Prowl would show up on his own tonight?

“After is better. Thanks, Blurr.” Jazz clapped his hand on Blurr's shoulder and bounced out to the stage. A few mechs in the crowd that were here last night cheered.

Blurr shooed a few more mechs toward the dance floor, all smiles and perfectly professional, though there was a part of his processors on the Jazz Issue the entire night. Things picked up after the usual evening energon time, and Blurr watched them all watch Jazz, saddened a bit that no familiar black and white frame was part of the audience.

Jazz was so convinced Prowl had just “moved on”, but nothing he said particularly pointed to that fact. Where was Prowl anyway? And what excuse could Blurr make up to track him down for a short visit? He wouldn't say anything, not yet, but he could see what — if anything — had so thoroughly convinced Jazz. And maybe Ricochet could help? Blurr had a friend who was pining stupidly for a mech everyone else was sure wanted him, but was convinced he wasn't wanted in return. How the frag did you get two mechs like that together?

 _Could lock them in my stockroom,_ Blurr thought, but Jazz was Jazz and Prowl was Prowl, so no lock was going to keep them trapped for long enough for that cliché to work. The question of how to corner Prowl somehow occupied him while he mixed up drinks and chatted about whatever his customers wanted to talk about. A lot of people congratulated him on getting Maccadam's open. 

Jazz was a big success. Plenty of people — especially former-Decepticon patrons — had come in just to see if the rumors were true and if _Jazz_ was really playing a violin/fiddle/viola/violino/whatever-that-thing-was.

The night was nearly over when Blurr figured it out: Prowl was Praxan, and Praxans liked crystals right? Like, growing living crystals? Blurr had already taken to gathering some of his own supplies and additives. The next step was growing some of those things, especially the simple, but occasionally expensive things like crystal tea. Even if Prowl knew absolutely nothing about it, Blurr could make the excuse that, maybe, because he was Prowl, he could point Blurr in the right direction to learn about crystals and cultivating his own ingredients. Perhaps just point him in the direction of mechs who would know. It was a perfectly valid excuse to track down the mech and talk!

Jazz was still on stage, which Blurr took as avoidance since his set had ended a while ago. Jazz, of all mechs, was avoiding him. Blurr declared last call and began cleaning up what he could. Avoidance or no, Jazz would have to come down now. Blurr kept an optic on him, hoping to catch him when he— there.

Blurr shooed a mech who was a little too drunk toward the door without that last drink, and two of his friends followed, laughing. He kept his optics on Jazz, moving quickly, and by the time Jazz had his viola and amplifier packed back up, his slushy was ready and Blurr had locked the front door.

“You okay?” Blurr asked, offering the drink. “You stayed up there way past when you're scheduled to.” There were tips to split though as well. Mechs had specifically asked Blurr if he could pass on cred chips to Jazz.

“Fine.” Jazz grinned sunnily, and Blurr couldn't tell if it was fake. He took the drink and held it up to his sensor horn, letting out a sigh of relief, before starting to spoon it into his mouth. “Just feeling the groove, you know?” he lied. That had been a _blatant_ lie. “Wore me out.”

Blurr decided to roll with it, and caught Jazz by the arm to tow him over to the bar and a stool. “Sit.” He went to the sink and dampened a clean cloth with cool water, wrung it out well, and brought it back to drape over Jazz's sensor horns. “Here, if you're going to exhaust yourself, the least I can do is make sure the medics have nothing to fuss over.” Blurr laid the cloth down gently and slowly, though it wasn't nearly as cold as the slushy, so hopefully didn't hurt.

Jazz let out a purr and Blurr saw his shoulders relax. “It's not a medical issue. They're just sensitive, especially to sonics. I can damp them for, well,” Jazz shrugged, and Blurr nodded. Jazz used sonic attacks on the battlefield and would have hurt himself if he couldn't dampen the sensors without blinding himself. “It's like how you like ice on your ankle joints after a run: it's not going to hurt you if it doesn't happen, but it sure feels nice.”

“I'll add a compress to the standing slushy order then,” Blurr said with a grin. “You sit, I'm going to finish up.” He stepped behind the bar and pulled up the last few energon goodies with cobalt dusting and set the tray in front of Jazz. “Eat these too, then I can use the tray tomorrow.” He popped one in his mouth before darting off to get the washer started and chairs and stools put up, then came back to wipe the bar itself down, slowing once he was in a decent conversation range. Just to give himself an excuse to start the conversation, Blurr pulled out the cred chips and started separating out Jazz’s tips.

“Is it too much information if I talk about Ricochet?” he asked and angled his head so the marks on his neck were obvious.

Jazz snorted, unfazed. “Depends on what exactly you want to talk about.”

Blurr snickered and dropped his voice a touch to purr, “He's going to get me a collar.” Did that mean it was serious or long term? No. But it meant that Prowl wasn't any more serious than that with Ricochet, and Prowl was practical. He wouldn't let his emotions get tangled up with a mech who said there was no future in their play. Blurr himself could take a page from that book. He was being insecure and possessive — though he wasn't going to blame himself too much — but he wasn’t _falling_ for him. Ricochet was amazing. In the berth, that was.

“You're good with that? Do I gotta update your psych file?” Jazz looked skeptical. 

“Maybe you do?” Blurr laughed. “I mean, it can't possibly have all my kinks listed, so if you want to know, I can share.” He winked and leaned on the bar to pluck a treat from the tray. “I'm not shy.” Look at him not-answer the question! Jazz, look, do you _see_ what it's like?

Jazz was unperturbed. “You'd be surprised just how many of your kinks are listed,” he teased back. “We kept pretty close optics on the Wreckers, and you are not shy.”

Blurr outright giggled. “Can I see it? Which one scared them all the most about me? The rape fantasy, huh? Most mechs see that and freak out. Or do they think I'm a masochist?” Because he wasn't. Masochists _liked_ pain. Blurr liked the floaty, oversensitive place pain could get him to. And Ricochet was proof that he didn't _need_ it to get there.

Jazz just gave him a flat stare. “You are a masochist. And do you really think my agents were freaked out about your kinks? Get over yourself.”

“No, not them!” Blurr said and waved a hand as if he could bat the ridiculousness of that assumption away. “I meant like, Magnus or Prime, or whoever was outside it all and overseeing everything.” He widened his optics. “Prowl. Does Prowl know? He knows everything else except how much you want him, so he probably does, huh?” Not the most graceful way to pull the conversation around to talking about Prowl, but Blurr was genuinely amused that _Prowl_ of all mechs might have read reports on Blurr’s affairs.

“Prowl knows,” Jazz just gave Blurr a you're-not-that-clever look. “Magnus gets redacted versions of most of my files. Prime probably skipped that part, but who knows.” He grinned, showing fangs. “Should I ask what Megatron thought when he got access to our files after the truce?”

It figured Prowl would know, and Blurr just grinned wider, undaunted by the idea of Megatron knowing too. “Drift's a very good friend of mine. I probably know things about Megatron even you don't, so it'd only be fair if he knew about all my little … proclivities. Kinda sexy in his own right, really, and the tales I've been told aren't a deterrent.” He laughed a little. “Might need to add that I have either developed or discovered I have a thing for 'Cons. Well, ex-Decepticons,” he corrected.

Jazz just shrugged. “You aren't the only one, really. There's an app for that, setting up cross-faction hookups.”

“Is there?” Blurr asked. And here he’d thought mechs were mostly sticking to the old faction lines. Wow. An _app_ for cross-faction networking. “Huh. And yes, for the record, I'm very,” he shivered lightly, “very good with Ricochet collaring me. But if you have a file, then my whole into dominance and submission thing should already be in it, shouldn't it?”

“Yeah, but you don't like ownership.” Jazz looked Blurr up and down. “You wore it for — who was it? Springer? — a couple of times, but you were very quick to take it off and disavow that it meant anything at all when you were done. That's not 'getting you' a collar, presumably of your very own.”

“I didn't match up the same way with Springer,” Blurr replied, and wondered who it was who'd blabbed that brief … affair to the higher-ups. Probably Springer himself, the kiss-aft. “Springer thought that meant he got to control me in every way all the time, and no amount of effort I put into defining the difference between scenes and normal routine clicked for him. Ricochet doesn't own me. It's a game. A very hot and sexy game with a mech who's got a possessiveness kink I'm happy to indulge him in. He understands the difference, and he doesn't cross the line.”

Plus, had Jazz _seen_ that thing Springer had put him in? Thick and black and covered in spikes. Maybe Ricochet had been thinking of the same thing when he’d brought it up, but he _hadn’t argued_ when Blurr had suggested something more subtle and delicate. Even if he’d been texting Blurr more and more outrageous “suggestions” all afternoon. Ricochet was an aft, but Blurr … Blurr trusted him to actually abide by his wishes in the end. Ricochet’s possessiveness made Blurr feel more like he belonged with him, not to him. 

And how had they ended up here? Blurr needed to find a way to steer the conversation back to Prowl, but he acknowledged he was up against Jazz and the mech knew how to steer a conversation himself. Blurr needed to dial back the defensiveness. Jazz wasn't Drift.

“Ain't arguing with you on that point.” Jazz pulled the wet cloth off his sensor horns and shook his head to help the last of the moisture evaporate off his plating. “You don't mind that he's a little,” Jazz waved his hand vaguely. _Crazy._ “You're pretty outspoken about not wanting to fight anymore and he's fighting in the Rage Cage for fun and profit.”

Blurr tipped his head a bit. He wasn’t sure how to answer that. Ricochet _liked to fight._ Blurr just didn’t, but that didn’t mean he really troubled himself over how Ricochet chose to live. “I also happily let him hunt me, and have told him that if he wants me to fight back a little, we just have to set it up, but it won't be a real fight between us. He was a little disappointed, but I think we both know he'd hand me my aft in a real fight. Not that I'd go out easy, but that's more damage than I want to take or inflict. The hunting and chasing thing was the compromise, and as far as I know, he's still happy with that arrangement.” Blurr grinned again. “In fact, tomorrow night, assuming he finishes up whatever he's up to, I'll be running the moment I close up here.” A finger was poked at Jazz. “So end your set on time, because I'll be kicking you out with a slushy to go.”

“I am duly warned.” Jazz snickered.

“What else can you tell me about him?” Blurr asked and ducked down under the counter long enough to find himself something light to sip before popping back up and pouring a glass. “It's all gone incredibly smooth so far — only a couple light instances of toeing the line from both of us as we learn the game and each other's limits.” He'd try bringing it back to Prowl eventually, but maybe Blurr could get more out of Jazz about his own playmate until then.

Jazz shrugged. “Depends on what you want to know. His file is pretty sparse, especially during the war.”

“No kink file on him?” Blurr asked and moved around the bar to park himself on the stool next to Jazz. “Or is 'likes to be on top' all there is?”

A snicker. “It's almost like you've been sleeping with him for weeks.”

Blurr reached over and poked a finger right into Jazz's side, just like he did to Ricochet, without thinking it through and somehow wasn’t surprised that Jazz reacted the same way, without flinching. Apparently Polyhexians, and spec ops agents, just weren’t wired to be ticklish. “That's no answer, and I need intel. He blows out my relays, the least I can do is figure out a way to return the favor. So spill. You know something, I can tell.” He could guess because Jazz of course knew everything.

“My info is sparse, mech. I know he used a series of aliases during the war and only started using 'Ricochet' after the truce. I have a short list of actions he was involved in, but either he had a lot more aliases, or he kept his head down through most of the fighting.” Jazz smirked as Blurr scoffed. Ricochet? _Not_ fight? Blurr didn’t believe it. “I know,” Jazz said, tone turning serious, “that he's been in lockup for assault three times since the truce because a partner thought it'd be 'nice' to turn the tables on him.” He glared at Blurr. “Mech does not like being bottom. But it's not like I have Rung or Smokescreen or his former teammates helping by telling me about all his affairs and teasing out the whys and what fors. _You,_ I can list out every kink and every frag you ever indulged in because you did it _on my watch._ Rico, not so much.”

Blurr waved a hand. “I don't want to take control. He's too good with it, and I'm too greedy.” He huffed and rested his cheek on his fist. “Oh well. I'll find something eventually. You know what's odd though is that he and Prowl are clanging then. Prowl doesn't seem the sort to hand off control that way.”

Jazz just gave him a flat stare. “Blurr …” he growled.

“What?” Blurr asked in exasperation. “I can wonder. Pits, maybe I'll go find out myself since you aren't going to. Or— Oh~♪” He sat up and smirked. “Is that it? You're out of practice, and Ricochet's got a rep.” He grinned. “Want some practice, Jazzy? I'm free tonight. ‘Specially if you want to growl like that some more and handle me a little roughly.” He wasn't serious. Not entirely, though Blurr wouldn't back down if Jazz took him up on the offer. “It's not that Prowl's moved on, it's that you're scared you can't match up in the berth now that he's finally developed a taste for it.”

“Oh, how can I pass up a gracious offer like that? Frag off,” Jazz added before Blurr could crow in any sort of triumph. “I'm not competing with _Ricochet._ It's,” he looked down and stabbed the remains of his slushy with his spoon. “Prowl petitioned for a lot at the edge of Iacon. He's spending his mandatory three days off a week there … building a house. A garden. Room for an office and hobbies and a mate that he is so happy he'll have the chance to _go look for_ once he and Rico are done with whatever they've got going on.”

“Okay.” Blurr nodded, sipping his energon a moment. “So why can't that mate be you? Why are you so damn sure that your chance is gone just because he's building a house and garden? I mean. I can't even believe it's you I'm having this conversation with. You're the mech who always takes the long shot, dances into danger, and comes out shiny and laughing and ready to dive back into the fray. How is it you who's too afraid to ask a mech you love to give it a shot? What if he's only moved on because he gave up on you because he thinks _you_ don't want _him_?!”

“Maybe he did,” Jazz acknowledged sadly, stabbing his slushie with more force. Blurr was pretty sure it was dead by now. “But it doesn't change the fact that I ruined it, missed my chance. I went to Earth to put my affairs in order so I could court him properly, and by the time I came back, he was poring over blueprints and obsessing over how big a bedroom he'd need just in case he ended up with a warframe and making lists of mechs he thought would be a good match. I'm not on it.”

A laugh barked out before Blurr could stop it, and he held up a hand. “Sorry. Sorry, that's not at you, but that's the most Prowl thing I've ever heard. The mech's making a list of possible mates. Primus,” he chuckled.

“It’s not like the population is _that_ big anymore,” Jazz defended with a little heat. “He can make a list!” The mech really had it bad, didn’t he? 

“Okay, look. He's got a list, and you've seen it, right?” Blurr asked, but pressed on before Jazz could answer, pointing a finger at him. “You go hack that datapad and add your name at the top, leave some small gift sitting on it for him to find. Then he can call you if he wants to, or he can ignore it, and then you'll know and move on yourself. I mean, Primus, Jazz. Do you really think there's a mech out there who can make Prowl happier than you?”

Blurr was going to find that datapad, he decided. If Jazz didn't agree to act, Blurr was going to involve Ricochet and get his hands on that datapad and do something about it himself. Maybe he’d gotten involved to try and get Prowl away from Ricochet, which was pathetic and conniving and he knew it, but now he genuinely wanted to help Jazz. Poor mech was miserable.

“If Prowl doesn't want me that's fine,” Jazz said firmly, deciding to be a _giant chickenbutt_ about it. “That's his choice. I'd rather stay his friend than lose him trying to be his lover, Blurr.”

“You're a stubborn pain in the aft. Is that a Polyhexian thing?” Blurr huffed and stood, draining his glass. “My whole point,” he said, staying beside Jazz and pointing at him again, “is that you don't _know_ that he doesn't want you. If someone really loved me, I'd want to know. I'd want to have that opportunity, even if I'd never considered it before, to see if we could build something. Your cowardice is robbing that mech of a chance he never even knew he had.”

“Yeah well,” Jazz mirrored him, finishing the cold, but now fully melted, energon from his slushy, then stood, “we can't all be brave all the time.”

Blurr shook his head, snatched the glass away from Jazz, and headed to the back with them. “I'm not going to watch you be miserable and waste away Jazz.” He had a plan, and he'd enact it. Drift might have some thoughts too, and Ricochet would probably enjoy the challenge of it, so Blurr would ask them both. Maybe it was still clingy and conniving to do this so he could ask to go on dates with Ricochet, but Jazz also super, duper needed the help. The poor mech was just so miserable …

“Whatever. See you tomorrow, Blurr.”

“Good night, Jazz,” Blurr said, the anger melting away into genuine concern. That mech needed help. While finishing the last few things, Blurr sent Drift a texted invitation to stop by early tomorrow.

The reply was garbled with sleep since Drift didn't always bother to wake up before answering low priority pings, but Blurr figured that meant he'd at least gotten the message. Blurr laughed at the glyph mash of a reply and decided he'd repeat the invitation in the morning. Lights out, doors locked, plan to help Jazz and Prowl realize they were meant to be started, he transformed and decided on a nice fast drive before heading home.

He turned toward the very outskirts of Iacon. Sure there were barely any roads out there, and the ones that were left were pretty damaged … but there weren't any insomniacs to run over or into. So plus. 

It’d be a good way to finish exhausting himself without Ricochet.

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	6. Chapter 6

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Blurr met Drift at the back entrance to the bar and let him inside, following before securing the door behind them. “Turn on the cooker for me, would you please? It's already preset, so just hit the 'start' button.” He set down the trays he'd carried from home and began unpacking his subspace, lining up all the containers of mixes and ingredients on the counter.

“I see how it is,” Drift grumbled good-naturedly. “You just want me to help you with the bar.”

“Does it help that part of that work is taste testing?” Blurr asked with a grin. “I finally have the setting powder to make a syrup to pour over the oil cakes, but I've never made it before.”

“Oh, well  _ that's _ different then.” Drift laughed and went to go find the heating unit.

“Thought that might change your tune,” Blurr said with a laugh and gave the baking molds a quick spray of mold-release before he began pouring in the treat blends. “Speaking of tune, and why I wanted to talk to you.”

“Uh oh. Is this going to be like that time with the Nilvorixian badgers where you—”

“Hey! NO!” Blurr jabbed a finger at Drift, trying really hard to play stern despite wanting to laugh. He'd managed to forget that … mishap for a while. “What happened on Nilvorix stays on Nilvorix.” He lost the fight and laughed. “Took me forever to pound out all those teeth marks.”

The white mech danced back, out of Blurr's reach, optics laughing though his voice remained serious and calm. “But you can't blame me for thinking of it when you say something like that in your don't-worry-I-have-a-plan-voice.”

Blurr eyed Drift, calculated, then smirked. “I can still reach you, you know? And I don't have a 'don't worry I have a plan' voice.” 

“You definitely have a don't-worry-I-have-a-plan voice. And when you use it, you have a plan and it usually ends up with one of us getting chewed on.” Drift smirked and revealed the tiny knife in his hand. Nothing like his two swords, which Blurr could dodge with absolutely no problem, it was almost a shiv … and Drift could hit Blurr with it if he came in close enough. Drift was  _ good _ with that little weapon.

“Spoilsport,” Blurr said and began piling the syrup ingredients on the counter.

An innocent blink and the shiv disappeared. 

“Though~♪ I  _ do _ have a plan. Or the start of one.” Blurr picked up the molds and shooed Drift out of the way so the goodies could start baking solid. “And I need some help because I know I can't pull it off on my own.”

“I knew it!” Drift pointed at Blurr triumphantly. “So what is it this time?”

“Prowl's got a list of mechs he feels might be potential mates. Jazz isn't on it. Jazz is too much of an aftheaded coward to take the one leap that would clearly make him and Prowl both happiest. I'm going to help them.”

“You're interfering with Jazz and Prowl's love lives?” Drift just looked incredulous. “I was right; we are going to get chewed on.”

“Ha ha.” Blurr shook his head and looked squarely at Drift. “You should see him, Drift. I mean, he's Jazz, so the game face is real, but I've pushed him a little. He's all sad and spark-broken. I was sure I went too far last night, and he didn't deck me or anything, and we both know he's not shy about doing that even if I don't deserve it. Then there's Prowl!”

Blurr began measuring into a separate bowl. “Did you catch sight of him opening night? Sure, he was having fun with Ricochet, but when Jazz was on stage and not looking at him, Prowl was staring with — slag you not —” A measuring spoon was pointed at Drift. “— farking longing. Those two idiots are in love with each other, something Jazz doesn't deny, but is too afraid of messing up their friendship. Not that they would. They want each other.”

Drift made a theatric groan and put his hand to his forehead and swooned. “Goodbye cruel world. We went out as Wreckers: doing the stupidest slag ever conceived of …” He shook himself, settling his armor. “Maybe Prowl can't assign us scutwork until the heat-death of the universe anymore, but Jazz will have absolutely no compunctions about murdering us. He’s going to dump us in an oubliette full of scraplets.” 

“You don't have to join my insane attempt at matchmaking if you don’t want to. Which, yes, I know it's insane, but can you imagine either of them happy with anyone else?”

“I try not to imagine them happy at all. It's pretty scary. Prowl might be all cool and collected most of the time, but we've both heard him cackling like a maniac when his mathematically precise plans come together.” Drift sighed. 

Blurr laughed. “You know what I'm not hearing?” He glanced at Drift, grinning helmwing to helmwing. “A ‘no’.” 

Drift sighed again, this time with even more exasperation “You're right. I'm not saying no. Can't let my fellow Wrecker go on a suicide mission all by himself.”

Beaming, Blurr mixed the syrup, then covered it and set it aside to do its thing before grabbing up a baking tray to pour the oil cake mix into. He loved this part of his day the most. “Good. And I'll try to be sure I'm the only one who gets chewed if things end up in FUBAR territory. So, want to hear how crazy your old Wrecker buddy is?”

“I suppose I must,” Drift groaned in overblown resignation. His spark wasn't in it though; he was eyeing the syrup mix.

“Let it rest,” Blurr said, amused. Drift and food … “So, okay, I mentioned Prowl's got a frelling list. Which if that isn't the most Prowl thing he's ever Prowl'd, I'd be stunned. So, I need to break into his home, which is apparently unfinished way out on the outskirts, so probably minimal security for now, get the 'pad hacked open, add Jazz's name, and then leave some small gifty thing, so Prowl notices.”

Drift groaned again. He was doing that a lot right now. “You realize Prowl's datapads tend to have classified information on them and thus, in addition to encryptions, passwords, and viruses, they physically bite, right? Besides, what makes you think he's leaving it in his home? He could carry it with him.”

Blurr waved a hand. “That's why I'm going to ask Ricochet to help too. He treats my locks like they're toys. And we won't know unless we look. I have a reason to go out and talk to him anyway, so I can look around then, talk to him some, maybe put the idea into his head to pursue Jazz a bit. I'll figure something out. What do you think would be a Jazz-like gift to give Prowl?”

“A matte black unobtanium vibroknife,” Drift answered without hesitation. 

“I said a Jazz-like gift for Prowl, not your personal dream weapon,” Blurr replied, amused.

“I happen to think it's extremely Jazz-like, but maybe that's just my perspective as a former Decepticon. Jazz and stabby things just go together,” Drift muttered. “So I'm finally going to meet the mysterious Ricochet. Guess that makes our upcoming murder worth it.”

“Yeah. Maybe that'll put you at ease about him. It'll never be a relationship. He's not into that according to intel, but …” Blurr gave his head a shake and reset his vocalizer. It'd been two days, and he was still revving at just the memories. “He put me deep, Drift. No pain needed. Just pinned me, kissed me, and fragged me straight out of my processors.” He looked up at his friend. “Want to guess the most amazing part?”

“I have a feeling you're about to tell me.”

Blurr chuckled. “He stayed.” The laughter died off, and he repeated more quietly, “He stayed, Drift. All night. Kept me wrapped up in the blankets, held me tight. He really took the time to get me back in my own head and made sure I was alert and okay afterward.”

“Blurr …” Drift reached out and put one hand on his arm, gentle and not restraining at all. “Good. You should never have settled for less.”

Blurr shrugged, though not to dislodge Drift's hand. “I was looking for someone who would.”

“Looking for love in all the wrong places?” Drift quirked an optic ridge.

That earned Drift a snort. “I'm not looking for love, just someone who can actually satisfy me in the berth.” He gave Drift a wink. “Ricochet so does.”

“Good. You are not a commodity. You shouldn't—” Drift looked down at the table and took a calming breath. “Do you know why I chose to take a vow of celibacy? Did I ever tell you?”

“Because you like to play  _ really _ hard to get?” Blurr teased, but he made a quick step sideways and gently nudged Drift's shoulder with his own. “Why? If you're comfortable telling me.” He slipped around Drift and pulled the trays out of the oven so he could slide the oil cake sheets in. This sounded like the kind of talk that required treats and tea.

“I was a commodity too,” Drift said quietly. Maybe someone else might have looked down at the table, hidden, if only in that one small way, from the confession he was making; Drift looked at Blurr. “Bought and sold from the day I came online. And I hated it, but it was what it was. It … wormed its way into my spark and I couldn't conceive of any other sort of relationship. It didn't exist; my needs, my real needs, were just me being needy, or clingy, or a bother.”

Blurr met Drift's gaze steadily. “It took me a while to figure out the difference between what I'd been told I like and what I really do.”

“Yes.” Now Drift looked away. “I met someone. Not someone new, but it was … the right time. The truce … Peace had made us giddy. We were looking for happiness to go along with it. And it was good … or it should have been. There was no reason it couldn't be. Except I, me, my … patterns … which had been crafted by millennia of being a victim … I couldn’t believe the kindness was real. Couldn't adapt. Couldn’t believe in … basic decency and it hurt him. It didn't last long, it couldn't, but,” he looked back up, “it made me realize that there was no me without that damage.”

“Drift.” Blurr stepped forward and wrapped his arms around his friend, field reaching too, in an offer of comfort. “Is celibacy the right choice for you then?” He nuzzled their helms together.

“I don't know,” Drift said, leaning into the comfort and turning his head to nuzzle back. “I believe such vows should be sacrifices. If it was something I could discard utterly and without regret, a vow would have been meaningless. But I don't know, and so I've given Primus my past and my future, my pleasure and my pain, my … abuse and my healing. And in doing so I will reforge myself without those things … but I will never know if it was right.”

Blurr squeezed tighter for a moment before stepping back. “Sounds like you've done the right thing to me. Primus'll look after you. Faith like that, it just makes sense, right?” He tipped his head, looking at Drift. “And,” he said and dragged the syrup bowl close to check it. “I think I get the message too. You've gotten subtle since the old days, so let me just double-check.” He smiled and stirred at the syrup, checking the consistency. “I deserve better than mechs who zap me and leave me once they've had their fill. That it?”

“You also deserve to  _ believe _ you deserve better.”

Blurr smiled a little and offered the spoon to Drift to give it a taste. “I have better now. Jumped up little ex-'Con with a heavy dominance kink, who stays with me, cuddles me like I'm important and not just some toy, and wants to get me a collar.” He gave a little wiggle of happiness. “I think, looking back, some of the mechs tried, but some were just slagheads. And that's not even talking about the Towerlings from before the war.”

Drift, ever a mech with his priorities in order, took the spoon and popped it in his mouth. Food trumped heavy conversations and spark bearing confessions every time in his book. “Mmmm. Let's not talk about Towerlings, on the premise that Mirage is very scary and also probably lurking in here invisible because isn't he always?”

Blurr snorted. “Mirage isn't going to frag with me. I knew him before the war, and there are still image captures I have he would be embarrassed by. It's good?” he asked, gesturing to the spoon which was still being licked clean.

“It's definitely not engine sludge.” Drift grinned, showing his fangs. “I don't know about 'good' though. Maybe I need another taste?”

“Yeah, I’m not going to fall for that.” Blurr checked his chrono and turned for the oven again to take out the oil cakes first, then took back the spoon. He switched it out for a new one, having no desire to be cited after having to go to all those fuel safety classes. “Here. Be a good mech, and I'll let you try some once the oil's cut.” He shut down the heat and waved Drift toward the door and main bar. “Come on. I gotta mix the highgrade blends.”

“Sure.”

“Want some tea too?” Blurr asked, but grabbed the mix and began to heat it without waiting for a reply. Everything was gathered up, including bottles, and Blurr spoke as he worked. “You know, I'm glad you were worried for me the other day. I wasn't even mad at you, just … I don't even know.” He glanced up at Drift and offered a little, sincere smile. “I'm glad I have friends who worry about me now.” The smile widened and he went back to carefully measuring and pouring. “Which makes it even better to reassure you that you don't need to. Ricochet's really, really good to me. He was so careful when I went nonverbal, but no matter what we're doing, he checks in. Then he stays. Primus, I'm not over that. He fragging stays, Drift!”

“Maybe — and keep in mind that I'm saying this because it was one of the things I couldn't believe but totally should have, not because I am ready to give up my reservations yet — because he wants to.”

“Well, I figure he does at least some,” Blurr replied. “I mean, there were some others who did stay, but I could always tell they didn't want to. Rico's never in a rush to leave, and if he ever is, it really will be because he has to be somewhere for real.” He shrugged. “At least that's how it seems. I think I've seen enough of a mech only sticking around because he wants another round and figures I wouldn't let him frag me if he doesn't cater to the spoiled little racer.” Blurr flashed Drift a grin. “Now, I wouldn't go so far as to say he likes me. He's not the commitment sort, so this is just for however long it lasts, but I think I'm pretty grateful to him. I mean, now I know what it should be like. So when I'm ready to look for a mate — if I ever am — then I know how not to let him treat me. I mean, if a random hook-up that turned into some semi-regular fun can treat me this well, then my mate should do at least as much, right?”

“At least,” Drift agreed, accepting the tea when Blurr held the cup out to him.

Blurr set the teapot within reach, excused himself a moment, and returned with the sheet of oil cakes to cut into bite size pieces as well as the new syrup. “So, yeah. I think maybe actually, I'm a little mad at myself for not having worked it out before now. I don't think everyone was just being mean about it, but I didn't make anyone treat me well either. I didn't know, and that's so frustrating and stupid! How didn't I know?” He grabbed a small plate and put a few oil bites on it before drizzling over the syrup.

“You didn't know for the same reason I didn't,” Drift responded gently.

Blurr nodded. “Is what it is, I guess. I know now. Okay. Honest opinion time.” Blurr nudged the plate across the bar and within Drift's reach.

His friend took one of the cakes, subspaced it, then took a second to nibble delicately on. “It's pretty good. Tangy?”

“Yeah. There's a recipe for a sweeter version, but the oil cakes are already so sweet, I thought I'd try this one first.” He reached out and took a piece for himself, and hummed lightly at the taste. Yes, that would probably be quite the hit.

“It's a good choice.” Drift took another treat. “There'll probably be some mechs that like the sweeter version, but this is good.”

“I'll give it a shot eventually,” Blurr said and went back to mixing the highgrade blends and getting them bottled. “I'm trying to be patient and just see what everyone seems to like best, stock up on that, and then I'll add in more options. I'm also trying to figure out which day or days I should be dark for now, though if business keeps doing so good, I really might be ready to hire a second bartender sooner than I thought. I'm probably getting ahead of myself there, huh? This'll only be the third night.” He chuckled at himself and shook his head. “Long-range goal is to leave the serving to everyone else and just do the cooking and mixing.”

“Stepping out of the limelight.” If Blurr hadn't known he would, he might have missed Drift subspacing another oil cake. “I'm glad it's making you happy.”

Blurr smiled. “It's nice. I finally have a home. I have something productive to do that's making others happy too … What about you? What are you going to do with things settling down? You know the buildings around me are all empty. You could probably open some meditation thing on the ground floor and live above.” He grinned wider. “We could be neighbors. I promise I've already soundproofed my place.” That was mostly so Blurr could rest during the day hours while running a bar at night. Not an issue now, but one day it probably would be — especially with how thin the outer walls were compared to the bunkers he was used to — and he didn't want to have to rip open interior walls again.

“I'm trying to earn a teaching credential,” Drift said calmly and with a smile, utterly ignoring the rest of what Blurr had said. “There're still a few Decepticons who can't read, and I'm already teaching them, but I want to have a school — a public school — ready when we start making new mechs again.”

Blurr's optics widened. “That's a great idea! Are you already scouting places for the school? I know a bunch of the nerds are already hard at work on a new sciences academy. Are there buildings near there? And wasn't Optimus talking about a library and archives recently?” Blurr didn't pay a whole lot of attention to the broadcasts and speeches, but he thought he remembered something about that.

Drift smiled shyly. “Prime is overseeing my accreditation since he's the only educational authority left. I'm helping with the library, but I want …” he looked down at his tea and swirled the liquid in the cup. “I kind of want to put the school further away from the science academy. I'm not really trying to do higher, specialist education, and I don't want my school trapped behind the walls that will eventually go up around the university.”

“Why are they going to add walls to the university?” Blurr asked with a frown. “Isn't the whole idea going forward that anyone can learn?”

“Right now,” Drift said sadly. “But in the future … “

Blurr's frown deepened. “In the future, I will be at that construction site — if they're ever stupid enough to make it — and I will be using all my lovely training to tear it down before it's done.”

“I know you will. You and Perceptor and everyone alive today. I … what's that thing Prowl used to say? I don't want to pin my success all on one plan.”

“Fair enough,” Blurr said and went back to work. “All we can do is set slag up properly, teach the next generation better than we learned, and hope they teach the next one better instead of backsliding.”

A sudden thought made Blurr blink. “Oh, slag. I should consider mentoring once they do start making new mechs, huh? I'm going to need someone to pass the bar on to.” Though he could sell it, now that he'd thought about it, the idea of finding a young mech who had an interest in cooking and business appealed.

“Well, that's not going to be for a while. Besides,” Drift nudged Blurr playfully, “I can't think of anything that'll drive off Mr. No-Commitment faster.”

Blurr threw his head back and laughed. “And I'm not ready to give up my getting faced through all the surfaces time yet.” He waved a hand. “Long way down the road for sure.”

Drift snickered. “He had better live up to the hype you're giving him, Blurr, or I will be very upset.” 

He didn't elaborate on with whom.

“What hype? You're not gonna 'face him,” Blurr replied with a smirk. “He's an aft, Drift. Maybe don't give him the shovel talk, especially since we're not dating, we're fragging.”

“It is my duty to give him the shovel talk though!”

“To the mech I'm planning to court, not my … what's that Earth term Sides likes? Fuck buddy?” Blurr capped the bottles and began loading them back under the bar. 

“I should tell you all the ways you are completely wrong about that.”

“Oh?” Blurr peeked over the edge of the bar. “I'm listening. What are these totally logical reasons for you to ask that mech to hand you your aft?” Because although Blurr hadn't seen Ricochet fight, he'd seen him move. At best guess, Ricochet and Drift were evenly matched. And Rico would be just  _ thrilled _ to goad Drift into a fight, and would never let it go if he happened to win. 

Drift scoffed. “You either have a lot of faith in your … your boy toy or very little in me.”

“Regardless, that's more damage than I want either of you suffering,” Blurr said and stood. He looked around the bar to be sure everything was set up. “Okay. I think I've got the time, so you stay here, enjoy the tea, and I'll be back from a quick visit to Prowl by opening time.”

“I'm going to eat all your treats.” Drift announced calmly. Which Blurr knew was a dirty, filthy  _ lie _ since Drift's tank still rebelled if he ate too many high-energy treats at a time … but he  _ would _ steal them.

Blurr pulled a plate of day-old — but still perfectly good — chromium dusted gelled energon goodies up onto the bar. “Don't make yourself sick. Tea blends are all there,” he said, hooking a thumb over his shoulder at the stock.

“Oooh. Taster cup time,” Drift crowed, shooing Blurr out the door. 

Burr hadn't gone far when he realized that the “outskirts of Iacon” was kind of a big place. Smaller than before the war, but still … bigger than the “downtown” district. Blurr paused on the road and then huffed. Ricochet. He'd found Ricochet on his way out of town and Ricochet's way back in. Ricochet was fragging Prowl. Blurr transformed and drove out the way he'd been that night. He even managed to keep his speed reasonable while in town, and once out, he found Prowl's little homestead easily. 

Prowl’s prefab was the only sign of habitation anywhere nearby. Future buildings, fences, and other structures had been marked with stakes and ribbon in a way that reminded Blurr of how he’d used tape to lay out the plans for his own home. The various wild crystal growth showed signs that someone had been weeding, and the whole back of the property was shaded by large, gnarled crystal trees. A few, ones Blurr could tell were sickly, had been marked for removal with more ribbon, but it looked like Prowl was planning on keeping most of the large crystals. 

All around it were the remains of buildings. Unlike around Blurr’s house, where many of the old high-rises still stood a few stories high, here they had all been flattened to rubble and were being reclaimed by crystals and weeds. As the only sign of reclamation in sight, the place looked lonely, but also … really free. Blurr transformed and walked up toward the little prefab shed’s door.

Jazz had said Prowl spent his three off days here, but Blurr wasn't sure this was one of them until Prowl opened the door. “Blurr?” 

He could practically hear the ‘what are you doing out here?’

“Hey!” Blurr said, beaming up at Prowl. “I heard you were out here. Are you busy? I don't have long until I have to be back, so I promise I won't keep you.”

Prowl stepped aside, holding the door open for him. 

It was a … normal prefab. One room. One window. One door. Prowl had put a bed in one corner. In the other, near the sink, there was a table with a cooling unit for energon and two cups. Two chairs. 

A set of blueprints had been pinned to the blank wall, where he could see them from his bed and look at them over energon. 

“This is about Ricochet,” Prowl stated, closing the door behind them.

Blurr smiled at the blueprints, but the smile dropped at the mention of Ricochet. “What?” For an instant, Blurr was worried something had happened to Ricochet, but then he blinked and shook his head. “No! Primus, no. There's enough of him to spread around, and it's not my place to say where.” He chuckled and pointed at the blueprints and the outline of the garden. “I came out because I heard you were going to be growing a garden, and I was looking for some advice. If you don't mind?”

“Ah … yes.” Prowl offered one of the chairs to Blurr as he poured a small measure of energon for each of them. “I don't actually know much. I wasn't a gardener … before.”

“Thanks,” Blurr said and took the offered energon. He didn't particularly need it, but it was nice of Prowl. “But I figured if you didn't know, you might know who or where to direct me.” He propped his elbow on the table and grinned. “Why in the world did you think I was here about Ricochet?”

“I am under no illusions that my current paramour is faithful but that does not mean I will remain ignorant of his other lovers. Of them, you are the only one he has seen more than a handful of times since we started dating. I calculated a seventy-eight percent chance you would seek out a confrontation after seeing us at your grand opening.” Prowl tilted his head, then nodded once in recognition. “It was a wonderful party. Thank you for having me.”

Blurr snickered. “I'm glad you could come. And for the record, I'm not the jealous type.” He let his gaze flicker over Prowl's frame. “If anything, I'm happy for you. I mean, so many of us figured you and Jazz would wind up together, but if you're not into him, it's cool to see you looking. If anyone, you deserve to be happy. You got so many of us through the war.”

“Yes.” If Blurr hadn't been watching for it, he would have missed how Prow's doors drooped before he corrected himself, armoring himself in a polite, professional facade. “Thank you. Moving on is my intention.”

Blurr tipped his head. “Uh … Sorry, if this is out of line, but … Well, you know how my processors work.” He pointed at Prowl's doorwings. “What was that? And 'moving on'? I'm so sorry, but … Did it just not work out? I'm not looking for gossip,” Blurr said and moved his hand to cover Prowl's wrist. The mech really did look like he was covering up now. “I mean … Yeah, Prowl, I'm so sorry. How long were you together?”

Well … he wouldn’t be winning any acting awards for  _ that _ performance, but maybe Prowl wouldn’t notice? Frag, who was he kidding … 

“We weren't,” Prowl said, and Blurr could swear he heard the same note of sparkbreak that he heard when he'd pushed Jazz about this. “I thought we would be but … he left. I decided,” Prowl's voice took on a note of steel, “that I needed to stop just waiting. I'd hoped, initially … but I think I'm doing rather well.”

Blurr opened his mouth then closed it again. Jazz was being an aft about even telling Prowl his feelings, completely sure that Prowl didn't want him, so he didn't dare tell Prowl that Jazz wanted him. “Yeah.” He offered a smile and patted Prowl's wrist. “I'd say you're doing good, but — and okay, I know I'm overstepping, but — he's back? I mean, he said he had some stuff to finish up on Earth, and now he's back here. You saw him. I hired him permanently for the bar, he's not going anywhere. Look, I wouldn't normally say anything, but like, you look kinda … hurt. He's not seeing anyone right now. Why don't you ask him out?”

Prowl just looked at Blurr like he was an idiot (he wasn't, clearly Prowl and Jazz were the idiots!). “I would have, but he made his feelings clear when he ran away. I'm just glad that he decided we can be friends.”

“Huh.” Blurr withdrew his hand. “I thought you were more logical than that.” Then he shrugged and said, “Well, Ricochet is certainly a very good distraction. If you ever need his attention but he's got plans with me, let me know.” Blurr was  _ not _ the jealous type. 

“Thank you for the offer, but Ricochet and I, he's teaching me how to date.” Prowl smiled very slightly. “For after, when I'm looking on my own. And, being seen in public on dates, should increase my approachability.” 

Somehow, that was  _ also _ the most Prowl thing to have ever been Prowl’d … Wow. 

“But anyway, enough of me being a busybody,” Blurr said, opting for a subject change before he could be suspected of more than just being nosy. “Without messing up your supply plans, where do you think I could get my hands on a variety of tea crystals? I'm interested in growing my own even if it's never enough to supply the bar.”

“I'm afraid I don't know where any of the domestic crystals can be found. Someone is still growing them because there are blends … Acquiring them will be a work in progress.” Prowl picked up a datapad and turned it on. Blurr felt a rush as he caught a glimpse of a list of names before Prowl turned it to an informational booklet on tea crystals. “But silver thistle is a weed. You can collect them from practically anywhere in Iacon, but you do have to keep it inside and in a pot, or else it will seed and spread over the whole garden. The flowers make a good, if rustic, tea.”

“Silver thistle,” Blurr repeated and nodded. “Do you know anything about growing crystals? I mean, I know that not all Praxans were crystal masters, but I've got to start somewhere, and your garden plans gave me hope for some direction to start in. If the library was ready, I'd go harass someone there.” He pulled out a datapad and stylus, noting down the silver thistle. 

“Just that they need the right substrate and fuel-acid mix, and that every crystal variety needs something slightly different. That should be simple enough for the silver thistle; just dig up some of the substrate around the specimen you select, and put out a barrel to catch rain to feed it.” Prowl set his cup and the datapad aside and stood. “Here. I'll show you. I've been digging up a lot of them.”

Blurr finished off the energon and stood too. “Yes, please!”

Prowl smiled and led Blurr back outside. “I haven't moved any inside yet because I don't really have room in the prefab. Here,” he turned the corner and there were several simple buckets, like those paint was mixed and stored in, each containing a spiky, haphazard crystalline growth in it. Nearby, a rain barrel sat, half full of contaminated acid. 

“They have thorns and silica irritants on the leaves,” Prowl warned. “You need to be careful when handling them, but when they bloom they're prolific, the better to make lots and lots of seeds with.” At which point, Prowl gestured to the back of the lot, under the tall crystal trees. At least half of the undergrowth was the same, spiky crystal.

“Wow, look at them all,” Blurr said, genuinely amazed. “I see what you mean about wanting to keep them in a single pot if you don't want them everywhere.” He stepped toward the crystalline plants but was careful not to touch. “How do you make the tea? Is there a special treatment for the leaves, or just gloves and wash them off before grinding them up? Or is it the seeds we use?”

“I've never done it before,” Prowl cautioned, “but from what I know, you just use the fresh flowers steeped in a very mild energon blend. These aren't in bloom right now, but the flowers are distinctly different than the leaves.”

“Oh … Okay, the flowers make sense,” Blurr said, then flashed a grin over at Prowl. “I can't do it today, but maybe I can trade some work here helping for a few plants?” And Drift loved all teas, so maybe he would know more too.

Prowl's small smile widened, though remained reserved. “Thank you. I would be most pleased to accept it. You could find these practically everywhere though.”

“Maybe, but if I take some off your hands, I'm helping you build your new life and home,” Blurr said and checked his chrono, only to be distracted by the arrival of another, very familiar mech. He stomped down hard on the frisson of something that went through his spark. “Oops. Looks like I'm out of time.”

“Yes. I apologize.”

Prowl went over to greet Ricochet with a hug, and Ricochet wrapped his arms around Prowl's waist. It looked affectionate. It was affectionate and … Ricochet kissed Prowl deeply.

Blurr glanced back at the silver thistle and fought down the sudden rush of … something. It made his face feel hot, his hands feel cold, and his spark throb too hard. Once Blurr mastered himself, he glanced back with a smile and announced, “I think that's my cue. Thanks, Prowl. I don't know which day the bar's going to be dark,” he added, walking toward the road, “but that day I'm all yours.” He gave Ricochet a smirk as he passed. “You two have fun.”

“Thank you again for your offer,” Prowl responded. “I look forward to having your help.” He leaned a little bit on Ricochet's ridiculous flame-painted chest.

“See you later, sweetspark,” Ricochet drawled, reaching out to brush his hand on Blurr's arm as he passed. “Don't work too hard.”

Blurr winked at them and stepped into the street. The drive back was slower than Blurr normally would have made it, but he didn't understand his reaction. He'd sat at the table with Prowl, fully understood that Prowl and Ricochet were dating. He knew why Prowl and Ricochet were dating, and that it wasn't anything either of them planned to make last. Just practice for Prowl. So why had it made him so uncomfortable to see them together?

Mechs were waiting at the door when Blurr pulled up, so he hurried to unlock, laughing at the teasing and joking complaints. Drift was still there, and before Blurr felt he'd caught up, Jazz was on stage. He tried to focus but his mind was going in a million directions and his famed, singular attention kept skipping from one thing to another without settling. He managed to serve people, but he wasn’t familiar enough yet with the mixology to do it on autopilot. He enjoyed mixing drinks but right now it seemed like every new request was an interruption that derailed his thoughts and forced his chrono to reset to some unknown count. He wasn't going to have any kind of chance to talk to Drift, was he?

“Barkeep!”

Apparently not. Blurr had been waiting for a free moment to go over to Drift’s table and suddenly realized that not only did the booth contain no sign of Drift or his tea but that it was quite late. He wasn’t sure how it had gotten that late.

“You know my name, fragger!” Blurr shouted back and grabbed the bottle of “nightmare fuel” Whirl wanted more of. It was the worst tasting slag ever, but Whirl didn't care about taste and Blurr had lamented about wasting it. “And, for that and because it's,” he raised his voice, “Last call! You,” Blurr pointed a finger at Whirl, “only get half a shot.”

Drift had left some time ago but had promised Blurr he'd come back tomorrow to talk before opening. Jazz dodged him in the hustle and bustle of everyone leaving, so Blurr was left to clean up and lock up alone. His spark throbbed hard as he sent the text to Ricochet.

Was he free or was he still … still practicing with Prowl?

The reply seemed to take forever. Eventually though …

_ “Run,”  _ was all Ricochet sent back to him.

Blurr got the comm just as he was locking the back door, and the rush that went through him nearly staggered him. In the next instant, he ran. He didn't even know where he was running to, and it took effort not to bolt at his top speed. It felt that good to just obey Ricochet’s voice, trust and anticipation as energizing as any fuel. Blurr eventually got himself leashed and slowed to a speed that wouldn't get him arrested for recklessness. There were empty buildings everywhere, so Blurr picked one at random and slipped around the back, hacking a lock — sloppily — to get the door open before pausing and looking behind himself at the building across the alley.

The figurative light bulb went on, and Blurr slammed the door and slipped over to the other building. There was a broken window, and he very carefully climbed through into the dark interior. Ricochet  _ liked _ the hunt. He wanted it. And he was good at it. Furthermore, Blurr didn’t know how Ricochet was following him, but he knew he wasn’t watching him. That meant following some physical trace … and  _ that _ meant that Blurr could throw him off a bit — and make him more revved when he found him — by laying some false trails. 

This looked like it had once been an office building, now full of broken cubicles, shattered desks, and overturned chairs. Dust clouds stirred in his wake, leaving a trail of footsteps in the accumulated grime.

Blurr bit his lip and forced himself to slow down, backtracking everywhere in the building, going to multiple different windows and exits before finally making his way to the top floor — or rather, the top floor which still had all its walls and ceiling. Five stories up should be secure enough, especially in a place that no one came near. Blurr made a trail up farther, then came back down and tucked himself behind an overturned desk with a view of the stairwell. He then engaged all the stealth mods he had — which admittedly weren't many; the one that dimmed his optics had been an upgrade when he passed sniper training, but his racing systems were already nearly silent — once he was calm.

Calm took some doing, but eventually, Blurr found that feeling of alert waiting he'd used before, and listened and watched for Ricochet's arrival.

Blurr huddled there. Watching seconds tick down on his chrono made each one soooo much longer than they usually were, and he felt jittery, anxious, and eager. But at the same time, he knew that it might take a while for Ricochet to find him. Ricochet was a very good tracker, but he still needed a trail of some sort to follow, which took time. 

Actually, how did Ricochet keep finding him? Blurr didn’t know. Sure, once inside the building there was tons of dust and all his false trails were very clear, but how did Ricochet keep finding which building he was in to begin with?

Most of the time, Blurr ran or drove at a normal rate of speed. Still hard to follow, but if Ricochet was watching from a higher building, entirely possible. Tonight, Blurr had leaped without thought and dashed away. Even watching, Ricochet would have lost sight of him. Frag. Had he screwed it up? Would Ricochet even be able to work out which building he was in? And then he'd laid that false trail into the other building. That alone would take time to search, and Blurr did have to open the bar and meet with Drift beforehand.

Blurr cursed silently at himself a couple hours later and considered moving to somewhere more obvious. That wasn't playing the game properly, but he wanted Ricochet to find him.

He screeched when a hand grabbed him and expertly locked him into the stasis cuffs before the shadow he hadn't seen pushed itself into the space under the desk, pinning him to the floor.

Blurr's spark thrummed as fast as if he'd just run a race, and he gaped up at Ricochet in shock. “How'd you find me that fast?” Because that had been fast, faster than usual and he'd been sure he'd screwed himself over doing a better job getting away this time.

“Cameras,” Ricochet chuckled, his yellow visor coming on dimly. He pulled Blurr's bound hands over his head and hooked them to part of the desk. “Fast as you are, you leave little friction scuffs and paint smears on everything you touch. Doors, windows… the road. And you're sniper-trained, so once I realized you were laying false trails in the dust, I went to the top and started searching there. Strange building you haven’t scouted before? Of course you’d want someplace up high with a good view. And finally …” Ricochet ran his claws down Blurr's chest, smug grin widening when he moaned, “the trails are cold, but you're running hot. Eager, aren't you?”

“For you? Always,” Blurr replied and struggled just to feel how well and truly pinned he was. “You hacked the transit cameras?” he asked, breathless. So much study and effort, all focused on him, Blurr. He could feel himself slipping sideways a little in his mind. “Rico …” But he wasn't sure how to word a warning. “Make me scream?”

“Pleasure or pain? Or both?” Ricochet petted a finial. “Don't fight it, sweetspark. I've got you.”

Blurr keened and shivered, head tipping into the touch. The question was harder. “Dunno,” he answered. “Both?” What did Ricochet want? What would keep him coming back?

Yellow and blue light gleamed off of Rico's hands and claws. They rested and curled around Blurr's collar faring. Then Ricochet grinned. His hands wandered lower, onto the flattish expanse of his chest. “Open up for me,” he commanded.

Lust exploded out of Blurr's field and his chest plating retracted immediately, without his conscious intent. A sharp cry echoed in the empty space, and Blurr writhed under Ricochet as everything but his spark's crystal retracted. Blue-white light glowed brightly, flickering with the rapid pulse of Blurr's spark.

“Now that is a beautiful sight,” Ricochet crooned, sounding hungry.

Blurr felt pinpricks of sensation skitter through his internal structures. He gasped and arched into the touches, mouth working a moment before he could find the right sounds. “Yours,” he whimpered, charge licking visibly over his internals already.

“Sure are.” Ricochet did something that Blurr couldn't see, but which sent bolts of pleasure skittering outward from the spark crystal-like lighting. “All mine.”

Blurr cried out sharply, back bowing off the floor. He bet Prowl didn't do this. He bet none of Ricochet's other playmates did either, and a small frisson of satisfaction flickered through him and his field. Anything, he wanted to say, but all that came out was a desperate, aching moan. Blurr would give Ricochet anything he asked for. Because he stayed. Because he was honest and fun and made Blurr feel like he was more than a quick frag.

“Frag that's hot …” The stimulation continued, a relentless onslaught of pleasure. Sometimes he felt the thin, sharp sting of claws and he knew that Ricochet could tear him apart … but Blurr trusted him, and the thought that he could just made those touches sing even louder through his sensornet. “Don't hold back, sweetspark. Whenever you're ready.”

Blurr twisted and squirmed, arched and pressed into Ricochet's touch, but the words were all the permission he needed. With a blinding flare from his spark, Blurr screamed his release, letting it consume him from the inside out. When the strongest of the surges faded off, he could hear his own broken whimpers. He was left wrung out and panting, too hot, exhausted, but still pushing himself toward Ricochet.

“Oh yesss … that was good.” Blurr barely felt Ricochet's frame shiver with his own, lesser, release. “Again,” he commanded, pressing his hands, his claws, his molten pleasure touches back into Blurr's wide-open frame.

Blurr tossed his head back, mouth open on another cry. His spark pulsed out, reaching, seeking beyond his control. Ricochet wanted more? Blurr would give him all. The crystal retracted, leaving Blurr completely bare for the first time since before the war began. A whole-body shiver made his plating chime and ring under the soft noises he couldn't help but make.

Blurr heard, felt, was surrounded by a possessive growl. Something gently brushed the outermost corona—

Hot, liquid ecstasy pulsed out from Blurr's spark to the very tips of his fingers, his helmwings, his feet … Everything was bliss, and it wasn't even another overload yet- though he wanted to give that to Ricochet. He'd been told to, and arched his chest up to try to deepen the touch, drag release closer.

He heard a chuckle, felt Ricochet's EM field blanketing him in amusement, possessiveness, desire … belonging. Belonging to, belonging with. 

Claws delved deeper into the layers of light until they cupped the almost-solid core of energy, cradling Blurr's spark like it was something precious.

Blurr went still, some part of him aware enough to know that too much thrashing with a hand around his spark could be dangerous, but it wasn't from fear. He sobbed from the pleasure, frame as lax as it could be, and his field radiating the trust and desire he felt for Ricochet. He couldn't have hidden the things he felt in that moment had he thought to try, and there was no room at all in his processors for thought just then. Blurr hung on the precipice, more open than he'd ever dared allow, and full of unshakable faith that Ricochet had him. He was Ricochet's, and he wouldn't be harmed. It was heady and all-consuming.

“Good …” Ricochet's voice praised him from very far away. “Good … Sweetspark.” Slowly, caressing, Ricochet pulled his fingers back through the layers, releasing him to move again. Every touch felt perfect, and Blurr tried to chase Ricochet's fingers. There was only so far off the floor he could go, pinned and bound, and he keened a desperate note when he couldn't follow farther.

Ricochet's hand came down on top of his spark, shading the light and feeling like a blanket. Blurr dropped back, panting and whimpering with each breath. His spark leaped and pulsed at Ricochet's palm, hungry for more contact, any contact. Blurr tried to beg, mouth moving, but no coherent sounds made it out. Chuckling, Ricochet petted the spark, then traced one claw through all the layers to touch that solid core.

A scream was torn from Blurr's vocalizer at the touch. It was both exactly what he needed and far too much. Instinct-deep protocols kept Blurr from thrashing beyond the toss of his head and the kick of one helpless foot, and an overload that felt like a supernova exploded through his systems. 

On top of him, Ricochet growled.

Everything tapered off slowly, the touch leisurely retreating, and Blurr was encouraged to close up his plating bit by bit behind it. By the time his armor locked in place, hiding everything from view, Blurr was exhausted. 

There was a crinkle of … something, and the warmth his fans were busy trying to dispel was instead held close to his frame. He didn't realize he could move his hands until they were moved for him, tucked with the rest of him under the … mylar emergency blanket. 

Blurr rolled toward Ricochet, soft noises escaping near constantly. He sought comfort and affection with the determination of an almost painful need and managed to tuck his face into Ricochet's neck. Everything ached perfectly, including his spark, and Blurr placed sloppy, clumsy kisses to Ricochet's neck, and when that proved too hard, chased the main conduit down to nip and chew and suck at. He was gently redirected to nip at the edge of a piece of shoulder plating, but otherwise just held and cuddled. Gentle, crooning sounds washed over him, and he wasn't sure if that was because Ricochet was just making soothing wordless noises, or if Blurr couldn't understand the words yet.

Contentment settled in as Blurr calmed into the afterglow. He sucked and nibbled at Ricochet's plating, too lightly to even scratch the mech's finish, and eventually began to purr softly. A few purposeful wiggles and Blurr even managed to free a hand and curl his fingers into an armor seam, holding on securely but not desperately.

And he stayed like that, for what seemed like hours, until Ricochet asked, “Awake?” in a voice soft enough not to wake him if he'd managed to drift off.

Blurr hummed, not entirely sure he had been only moments before, but he was aware now. He should probably try words, but Blurr felt lazy and safe and wasn't at all sure he wanted Ricochet to get up and leave yet.

No. He was awake and back in his own head enough to know that was wrong. “Stay?” he asked, voice laced in static, but not so bad he couldn't be understood.

“Yeah. I'm staying.” Ricochet petted over Blurr's mylar-wrapped frame. “I brought us a cot though. More blankets. Want me to pull it out?”

Blurr nodded, knowing the cot would be more comfortable than the floor. And definitely cleaner, though he probably owed Ricochet a good polishing after rolling around in the dust. It took a bit more focus for Blurr to uncurl his fingers, but he managed it. Ricochet was staying, he could bear letting go for a couple minutes so they could both be more comfortable.

“I got something for you to do,” Ricochet said softly as Blurr released him. A cube puzzle appeared in his hand from his subspace, all mixed up. “Take you, what? Ten minutes or so to solve, even at full speed. Just concentrate on it for me, 'kay?”

“'Kay.” Blurr laid back and pulled his other hand free and frowned up at the cube before giving it a light twist. It moved, one of the sections rolling independent of the others. Oh! He hadn't seen these mech-sized before! Someone must have taken the Earth toy idea and built one for Cybertronians.

Blurr turned the puzzle cube over in his hands several times as he took in the positions of the colors and began to turn and experiment. It would take him a while this time — not all that long, but long enough. He kept one audial on Ricochet's movements, aware the mech had to be scuffing his feet against the floor and letting the cot clack open that loudly for Blurr's sake. It was appreciated, and by the time Ricochet stepped close to gain Blurr's attention, Blurr was winding the last panel into place.

“Done.” Blurr offered up the cube with a grin.

“Good job.” Rico accepted the toy and subspaced it. Then he reached down to help Blurr out from under the desk and over to the … Woah. He'd put up a whole emergency shelter. “Come on.” 

Blurr stumbled, clinging to Ricochet again, as he was guided into the tent and laid down on the cot. There were more blankets. More mylar emergency blankets but also one lightweight acrylic snow blanket. Blearily, he recognized everything from an Autobot's standard hostile planet survival kit. Lightweight, strong, and designed for maximum effectiveness without taking up a lot of room in a mech's subspace. 

Ricochet laid down with him, pulling the blankets over them both and encouraging Blurr to cuddle close again. “We ain't moving again until you're ready,” he assured. “Here.” He held up a small solid cube of dense, nutritious emergency rations. “Eat.”

Blurr opened his mouth to take the cube and purred. He let the ration melt while he wiggled himself into place and found the right seam to curl his fingers back into. Once the cube was gone, he tipped his head back and kissed Ricochet's jawline. “Thank you.”

Again, there was more in Blurr's field than he would have allowed there if he was completely back in his own head, but he was still floaty and loose. There was the usual gratitude and contentment, but there was more there now too, that he didn't recognize or notice enough to try to withhold.

“I'm staying,” Ricochet whispered. “Sleep. You're safe.”

Blurr went back to sleepy soft purring and found Ricochet's shoulder to give a last nip to.

.

◇─◇──◇──◇─◇

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	7. Chapter 7

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◇─◇──◇──◇─◇

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A soft touch stroked back and forth over Blurr's helmwing, pulling him gently back out of recharge. He whined lightly, not really wanting to wake yet, but there was no one except Ricochet who would be there, touching him like that. “Mornin'. S'was good last—” A rush of memories hit Blurr square in the chest. “Oh.”

Ricochet's EM field, which had been buzzing with vague smugness shifted polarity into concern. “Morning. You okay?”

“Did I go too far?” Blurr asked and looked up at Ricochet's visor.

“Too far what? The spark play?” Ricochet petted him and his field shifted back to smug. “I like doing a bit of spark play. You were just gorgeous, opened up and exposed.”  _ Mine, _ Ricochet’s field sang.

Blurr shivered at the tone and relaxed back into Ricochet's hold. “Yours,” he murmured in confirmation of what he could feel. “Last—” He reset his vocalizer to clear off the static. “Last time wasn't exactly my choice. I didn't know it wasn't, but I remember it. Wasn't like that. Didn't make me feel …“

Blurr felt Ricochet's EM field spike in anger, but it smoothed back out quickly to concern.”Yeah? I didn't overstep, did I?”

“No,” Blurr was quick to say. “No, I wanted it, I just … I really wanted it,” he whispered, a little worried about what came through the night before and now again in that admittance. “I just know we have boundaries, and I don't want … I don't want you to …“

“I don't bare my spark,” Ricochet said firmly. “But I like playing with my partners'. I'm not going to leave because you trusted me that much.”

“Okay.” Blurr cuddled back in and made himself relax. “I don't usually. Sparks that is. Trust thing, obviously. And they never stayed, so I didn't think they deserved it.”

Ricochet growled and Blurr felt that spike of anger again. “Any of them still alive?”

Blurr looked up, opened his mouth to say “a few”, and closed it right back up. “None that forced the issue.” He wasn't going to lie, but he was absolutely not giving up those names. Ricochet would kill them, and even if they’d been … not good for him, they didn’t deserve a vengeful Decepticon spec ops mech hunting them down.

Ricochet hissed. Blurr heard him count quietly, then relax again. “Slagging garbage-haulers.”

“I let them,” Blurr replied with a one-shouldered shrug. “I never made them treat me right. Why bother with courting and staying when I didn't ask and they could keep me as the dirty little secret.” The words held a bitter note, and Blurr frowned at himself.

“Courting's got nothing to do with it,” Ricochet snarled. “You don't wanna tell me, fine, but if I find any of them …“

Blurr's frown deepened as he thought of Prowl, and tried to keep the ugly emotions out of his field. That was a different situation, he tried to remind himself, but he was still a dirty secret, wasn't he? “I'm not going to tell you because I know what you'd do, and if I wanted that done, I'd do it myself. I'm more than capable of kicking a glitch's aft when I want.”

The simmering anger lasted a moment longer, then doused. “No one lets me kill anyone anymore …” Ricochet grumbled. He caressed Blurr's plating, scratching the helmwings lightly. “You bit me last night,” he changed the subject, sounding amused.

Blue optics shot guiltily and directly to Ricochet's shoulder. “I can buff it out.” He spotted a few scratch lines on the shoulder he now remembered gnawing and sucking at, and a ripple of not-fear-but-definitely-concern ran through him. “I wasn't trying to mark you up.”

“Don't worry about it. It was cute.” Rico laughed, rearranging Blurr back into his cuddled position.

“What about Prowl?” Blurr asked before he could stop himself, then stumbled over an excuse as to why that would be an issue. “I don't … He was worried I was there about you yesterday.”

“Prowl doesn't get to tell me what to do. No one tells me what to do.” He tilted Blurr's head up to meet his gaze. “You're not a dirty secret. Are you jealous?” He seemed genuinely perplexed as to why that might be.

“No!” Blurr denied instantly, then hesitated, remembering that hot-cold pain that shot through him seeing Ricochet kiss Prowl. “Yes?” They hardly ever kissed. “Maybe?” he huffed and tried to squirm back. “Bet Prowl doesn't whine to be cuddled after a frag,” he grumbled, lower lip beginning to poke out.

A sharp sting flicked against his finial. “Prowl isn't a submissive, dumbaft.”

Blurr yelped and clamped a hand over the offended sensor. “What's that have to do with it?!”

“Subs need to be coddled a bit afterward, to recover,” Ricochet's voice was matter-of-fact. Like it was just the way the world worked. Like it was nothing. “Looks different for every mech,” he admitted, “but cuddly and clingy's probably the most common thing a recovering sub needs. 'S my responsibility.”

Blurr's mouth dropped open a little and actual rage flashed through his field before he leashed it in. “What?” he asked, voice flat. Ricochet didn’t lie to him, he couldn’t  _ not believe _ him, but if that was true, if Blurr wasn’t any more clingy or needy or pathetic or anything else than  _ anyone _ else…

Ricochet looked confused. “Doms are supposed to take care of their subs. I like playing rough, and making sure you're okay afterward is part of that.” Now his visor narrowed with his own, responding, anger. “Who told you otherwise?”

“You mean that I'm a spoiled, clingy brat?” Blurr snapped back. “All of them?” He swung a hand out. “Or most of them. Those who didn't say it out loud sure made it clear they were thinking it!” No, not all. Whirl was surprisingly good, but then, they just fragged. And Whirl liked “post-overload snugglies” as he called them so Blurr hadn't felt like he was pushing for something his lover didn't want to give.

The anger snuffed out, and Blurr's optics stung. He blinked and shook his head. “You like it? You're not just catering to me?”

Ricochet hissed out a breath. He did the counting thing again and his frame relaxed. Then he rolled over to push Blurr into the thin mattress. “I like,” he kissed Blurr's jaw, then bit his neck, reinforcing the claiming mark, “everything about being with a submissive like you. The power, the pain, the pleasure, the trust,  _ and the recovery. _ I like other things too,” he admitted, nuzzling the mark, “but that's why I juggle you and Prowl and the others. Not because you're demanding and clingy and he's not — because he can be pretty slagging clingy! — but because he wants different things.”

Blurr whimpered under Ricochet, his frame going limp, submitting instantly. “Can we go on dates?” he asked in a bald whisper. “Can people know I'm yours?” Trembling hands reached up and slid along Ricochet's shoulders. Could Blurr have more? “I don't want to take you away from the others. I can't even promise I won't 'face others myself.”

“Yes. No. Sorta. You're not a dirty secret,” Ricochet whispered fiercely, “but part of what I'm doing with Prowl is building him a rep, and it'd be rude to leave him with one for tolerating that sort of blatant double-cross.” He stroked Blurr's face, then leaned in for a kiss — for the first time a little hesitant in their interactions. “We can go on more private dates — picnics, walks, that slag — and when me and Prowl are done, you and me'll do everything else too. Promise.”

Which Blurr understood and also reminded him that he needed to talk to both Drift and Ricochet. That conversation could wait though, Blurr was too wrung out to try and explain it all right then. Instead, he tightened his arms around Ricochet and nodded. “That makes sense. And I don't want Prowl hurt. In fact, I want to help him. He's going to help me with some tea supplies.” Blurr lifted his head for another kiss, then relaxed back, optics going to the marks he'd left on Ricochet's shoulder. A finger traced the light scrapes. “I can fix this.”

Ricochet shrugged and kissed Blurr again. “Don't bother. Little things like those, I'll wear them a while.”

Blurr traced the marks again and peeked up at Ricochet. “So I can chew on you some more?” He curled his fingers into claws and dragged them lightly down the back of Ricochet's shoulders. “Could leave me unbound and I could scratch up your back too.”

“Maybe later,” Ricochet snickered. “Don't you have goodies to bake though?”

“Yeah, but I'm comfy here,” Blurr answered with a smile. “Though I do need to talk to Drift this morning. And depending on what he thinks, I might need your help too. Will you swing by the bar before opening? I actually need to go straight there after cleaning up today. The oven's easier to use there.” Primus, he really needed to get his own kitchen done.

“I got an errand,” Ricochet said, flopping off of Blurr and onto the other side of the cot. “Can stop by after though.”

“We'll be there, so I'll leave the back door open for you.” Blurr stretched and a cable twanged in his back when it popped loose from a crimp. “Thanks, Rico,” he said softly and rolled over to snuggle into Ricochet's side for just a moment. “Want my help packing this up?” he asked, waving a hand at the tent. It was only fair he helped after all.

“Sure. I suspect you know how it all folds up.” Ricochet unsubspaced a cube of solid ration gel and offered it to Blurr. “To get you home.”

Blurr took the gel carefully with his teeth. “Spoiling me,” he said then chewed it and dragged himself from the cot and cozy blankets. Everyone knew how to fold up an emergency shelter kit, and Blurr was practiced enough at it that he was able to get started without really thinking about it. “You have plans tonight? After closing time, I mean.”

“Don't think so. Want me to break into your house and have my way with you?”

Blurr's spark tripped. “Want me to put up a little bit of a fight?”

Ricochet snickered, collapsing the cot back down into its compact form. “Do  _ you _ want to put up a bit of a fight?”

“No real damage. I'll try not to kick you,” Blurr said with a smirk. “Show you a little peek at why I qualified as a Wrecker.” Nothing too much. Blurr really didn't want to be injured or to hurt Ricochet, but it would be a thrill, and maybe Ricochet would like it too — even if it wasn't a “real” fight.

The tent collapsed and they started folding it. “I ain't scared of you, sweetspark.”

Blurr snorted a laugh. “Who are you afraid of?” he asked, his tone clearly conveying he figured the answer was “no one”.

Ricochet just preened and strutted in answer.

“Uh-huh.” Blurr just shook his head and laughed. “Big Bad 'Con.” He finished rolling down the last blanket and crossed to Ricochet, holding it out even as he dipped in and stole a kiss. “See you in a little bit?” Blurr figured he had just enough time to get home, clean himself up to presentable, and then get to the bar to meet Drift and start cooking again.

“Yeah. Go on.” Ricochet started subspacing the kit.

Blurr made sure he was right by the stairs before saying, “Oh? I needed your permission?” He then fled, fully expecting to pay for that later and looking forward to it.

Drift was waiting by the backdoor when Blurr finally made it to the bar. He wasn't exactly late, would, in fact, have plenty of time to do the cooking, but he was later than he'd wanted to be. “Hey!”

Keying the door open, Blurr gestured Drift in. “So, okay, the datapad hacking isn't going to work,” he announced and moved to start the oil cakes and syrup right away. Everyone had loved the syrup!

“Does that mean we're giving up?” Drift asked hopefully. “Peacetime is great. We don't need to do suicidal things anymore.”

Blurr barked out a laugh. “No, we are absolutely not giving up.” He dug into his subspace, grabbed Drift by the wrist, and clapped a cred chip into his hand. “Plan has changed, but those two idiots need our help.” He spun on his heel and went back to cooking and mixing, moving faster than he usually did because if this was going to work, then Blurr needed to get back out there today before the bar opened.

“It's glitching my processors how two such blindingly smart mechs can moon after one another while assuming the other doesn't want them.” Blurr huffed and shook his head. “You should've seen Prowl yesterday, Drift,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “He's fragging sparkbroken. Adding a name to the datapad won't be enough.”

“They're big mechs, hardly newbuilds,” Drift griped, examining the cred chip. “What's this for?”

“If they weren't acting like lovesick newbuilds, we wouldn't need to help them,” Blurr shot back. He waved a hand back at Drift. “And that's for you to go shopping with. Find Prowl something he would like that could come from Jazz.” Blurr paused mixing and looked back over his shoulder at Drift. “No knives! Maybe like a book on gardening or …” He shook his head. “I don't know, but something Prowl would like. I'd go, but I really have to get this all set before we head out to see Prowl.”

“Does Prowl actually like anything?” Drift grumbled but he obediently shooed off to go get the gift.

“Of course he does!” Blurr yelled after Drift's retreating back. “He likes Jazz,” he muttered to himself and continued to line up and knock out the tasks he needed to complete.

A while later, Blurr was getting antsy about his plan while he topped off bottles of highgrade behind the bar. All the glasses were lined up neatly, the treats were portioned out, and he'd even gone and taken down the chairs and stools after mopping. Footsteps drew his attention, and a glance proved it was Drift.

“Finally! What'd you get him?”

“Um … ” Drift shrugged and held up the box. It was wrapped, most likely by whoever he'd bought it from. “Some of those fancy crystal-gummies Sideswipe makes. I blanked. I couldn't think of anything else.”

Blurr gave it a quick thought to remember what Prowl had seemed to enjoy when he'd been in for opening night and nodded. “That'll work. Yeah,” he said and capped off the last bottle. “Yeah, that's really good actually. It's not cheap, it shows he knows Prowl's tastes, and yet it's not so extravagant that there's, like, pressure attached to it.” Blurr wiped off his hands and polished the bar where he'd splashed a little Manganese Spark Throb.

“Now I just need Ricochet to get here so he can break into Prowl's house and put the gift and invitation in there while I distract Prowl outside.” Blurr leaned his elbows on the bar. “Only thing I haven't quite worked out is how to get him and Jazz to sit still long enough to get it. I'm afraid Prowl's going to walk in, and Jazz is going to bolt or deny the gift is from him.”

“Wait, Jazz will what now?” Ricochet demanded from where he was coming in from the back.

“Bolt like the frelling coward he is,” Blurr answered and straightened, unable to keep his optics from roaming Ricochet's form. The thin, barely noticeable scrapes were still on his shoulder, and that sent a nice little zing through Blurr's spark. Ricochet really had left them. “Though to be fair, I'm not sure which of them is worse.”

Ricochet sighed. Blurr saw him counting, then he strode forward and caught Blurr in his arms and kissed his forehead. “Start from the beginning. Jazz is a frelling coward …“

Blurr grinned at the kiss, but then cycled his vents and eased back — mostly so he could focus on something other than pressing in against Ricochet. “Jazz and Prowl are, and have been for as long as most of us can guess, madly, stupidly, idiotically, desperately in love with each other.” His arms swung out in exasperation. “Jazz, the aftheaded glitch, sits in here pining over Prowl having 'moved on'.” Blurr jabbed a finger toward Ricochet. “But you know what that dumbaft hasn't ever done? That's right! He's never even asked Prowl. And Prowl! That gearshaft is so smart he's looped right back around to stupid. He had the nerve to tell me yesterday that Jazz zipping to Earth to handle some things is absolute proof that Jazz doesn't want him! Want to take a guess at what he hasn't done?”

“Not really.” Ricochet shook his head. “Jazz is pining for Prowl. And …” he glanced at the box in Drift's hands.

Drift took the opportunity to grin, showing his teeth. “Hi. Ricochet I presume? I'm Drift, and if you hurt Blurr I am going to stab you in the face.”

Ricochet scoffed. “Welcome to try any slagging time, gearshift.” He dismissed Drift with a flick of his armor. “So you're trying to get them together.”

Blurr gave Drift an unamused look that promised retribution, then turned back to Ricochet. “Prowl has not said anything to Jazz either. So, no. No, I'm not trying to get them together. They'll do that all on their own if they stop moping over the other not loving them back for two seconds.” He pointed at Ricochet again. “And no, this is not me trying to get Prowl away from you. Keep 'facing him silly if you think you can keep Jazz from ripping out your cables, but watching them both hurting over an issue that could be solved with a two-second conversation is driving me insane.”

“Did I say I objected? Jazz—” he stopped. “You said the only part you hadn't worked out was keeping Jazz from bolting?”

“Yeah,” Blurr replied. “But the first step is getting out to Prowl's place. I've got a note, and it's not really hard to copy Jazz's handwriting.” He pulled out a flimsy and waved it in the air. “Little invitation to Prowl from Jazz to join him here for drinks, if indeed, Prowl does feel the same way Jazz does for him. I need you to sneak it into Prowl's little place while I keep him distracted outside. Willing?”

“No.”

Blurr's jaw dropped. “What?!” Even Drift looked a little surprised at the flat refusal.

“Get sword-boy to sneak the note in. I'll deal with Jazz.” Ricochet smiled and stroked Blurr's final.

Blurr tipped his head into the touch. “You murdering him, or him murdering you is going to ruin the whole plan, sweetling.” But he shifted his gaze to Drift. The mech was certainly more than capable, it was just that Blurr had been planning to leave him behind for deniability.

Ricochet scoffed. “You talk like I have no self-control at all. Much as I'd like to, I'm perfectly capable of not-murdering people. Usually.”

“That's comforting then,” Blurr teased and tucked the note away. “Alright. Whatever you do, see if you can have him here by evening energon. Less damage is better. Don't want Prowl thinking we had to drag Jazz into this even if we are. I've got a little booth set up for them.” He pointed to the dim back corner and the cozy table with the little “Reserved” card on it. “Drift.” Blurr grinned at his friend, as wide and charming as he'd ever smiled at a reporter back in the day. “Shall we zip off and bug Prowl?”

Drift just gave him a flat stare. “If I must,” he whined.

“I'll make it up to you in tea and goodies.” Blurr grinned and leaned over to kiss Ricochet. “Thank you. I'll make it up to you any way you want,” he purred, then waved them toward the back door so he could lock the bar back up.

Ricochet just smirked. “See you tonight.”

Blurr bounced out the door after passing the note to Drift then ignored his friend's long-suffering sigh.

Drift slipped off the road before they were within view of Prowl's place, and Blurr pulled up, smiling to see Prowl already outside and working. “Hi, Prowl!”

“Hello,” Prowl looked up from the pile of weed-crystals he was pulling. “How can I help you?”

“I came out hoping to steal a few of your weeds and let you know that I've decided to let Maccadam's be dark in three days,” Blurr said, pulled out a little plant pot, and smiled hopefully. “I figure, if you still want me to, I can come out and help then.” Hopefully, Prowl would be too busy with Jazz, but if they managed to keep their hands off each other, then Blurr would come help anyway.

“Thank you for letting me know. I have a construction crew coming out to start digging,” he gestured to the staked off area, “tomorrow. But we can get you a silver thistle. I'm going to try to leave the trees untouched, incorporate them into the garden, so the underbrush needs to be cleared by hand.”

“That's exciting,” Blurr said sincerely. “It'll be fun to watch it come together. I have a million plans still for the townhouse, but I focused on the bar first so I'd have an income to help.” Behind Prowl, Blurr caught a flash of white dash from one of the trees to the rear of the prefab. “Think that one would survive in this little pot?” Blurr asked, pointing to a plant to Prowl's right and away from the activity. “I thought I'd nab a few today, set them behind the bar, and then when they flower I can make a thing of plucking the flowers fresh to make the tea.”

“I think so.” Prowl picked up the spiky, crystalline weed in gloved hands and laid it out on the ground, much more gently than he'd thrown it when he pulled it. “It looks intact. Let's get some substrate.”

Blurr crouched beside Prowl, genuinely taking in everything the mech did, and held the little pot out. “How often should I give it the acid mix?”

“I'm pretty sure it'll grow best if 'watered' before the substrate fully dries, but don't soak it.” Prowl piled the loose rocks, rust, metal, and other bits from the ground into the pot before setting the small crystal inside and gently piling more around its absorption tendrils. “Silver thistles are very hardy though. It should survive our learning curve.”

“Thank you, Prowl. Really.” Blurr grinned and opened his mouth to say more when a strange sound erupted from inside the prefab and he shot to his feet with Prowl. “The frag …” What in Primus' name was Drift doing?!

Prowl already had his acid rifle out and aimed. “My dog!” He started to dash toward the prefab.

“Your what?!” Blurr was lucky he was a racer and ran hard and fast so he could beat Prowl to the door. He paused, hand on the handle, and looked back at Prowl only to blink. “Wait. Are you going to shoot it?” he asked, aiming for confused as he listened to Drift curse quietly and clatter toward the back of the prefab. Hopefully, Prowl hadn't heard as he was a few paces back still.

“I was going to shoot the intruder,” Prowl hissed, doors flared.

“Yeah. Okay, that makes more sense,” Blurr said as he set the little pot down on the stoop and held up his hand before leaning his audial closer to the door. “I don't have a gun, sir,” he said, letting himself fall back on old protocol. Inside there was another clatter, nearly drowned out by the “dog” barking its head off. “How do we play this?”

What he needed was for Drift to get his aft back out, then stand behind Prowl to block the mech dashing back out and giving chase before he could see the gift and note. Drift would need time to vanish back into the wilds.

A louder yelp — clearly from a mech — sounded through the door.

Prowl tilted his head, thinking for a split second. “Do you think you can run in there and either tackle the intruder or get the dog out? I'll cover you.”

“Sure can,” Blurr said. The sounds were farther from the door, and Blurr prayed that Drift was near the window, because he was going to make sure he threw the mech through it. “Just don't shoot me.”

Blurr glanced back at Prowl, received a nod, and after another quick cycle of his vents, yanked open the door. High-performance, high-speed processors took it in as a snapshot.

There was the turbohound, barking and jumping at Drift, who was trying to kick the mechanimal back without kicking it. He clung to the edge of the window but didn't appear able to get a stable enough footing to jump up and out the small, shoulder-height opening. The gift and note sat on the table out of Blurr's direct path, and behind him, Prowl had begun to move.

Blurr shot forward, planted his hands on Drift's aft, and shoved up. Drift's optics had only just started to widen in shock before he was tumbling out the window. Blurr crouched and wrapped his arms around the turbohound's shoulders, and yelled, “Clear! Prowl, it's clear, whoever it was, I think he's gone!”

Prowl stepped in and took in the scene. Not dumb he checked the window, but apparently, he didn't see Drift because he turned away to scan the room more thoroughly. 

His optics landed on the package and his doors went up. “Get out. I'm going to check around back and call a bomb squad.”

“A bomb squad?!” Blurr asked, gaping and trying to hold onto the turbohound, who now very much wanted to run out the front door and give chase. “Why the bomb squad?” Holy slag, that would not end well.

Prowl tried nudging Blurr toward the door, turbhound and all. “There are still dissident elements. Mostly off-world, but I am a high priority target for anyone looking to destabilize Cybertron right now.”

Blurr shifted because he was light and Prowl wasn't weak, but he still tried to hold his ground. “Wait a second. Of the two of us, my speed means I'm far more qualified to handle a possible bomb. You take your new friend here outside and tell me what you think is a bomb. I'll grab it and get it away from you.”

Prowl accepted the dog, who calmed under his touch. “That is reckless. We should evacuate and wait.”

“And if it's on a timer?” Blurr asked and straightened, hands going to his hips. “We both know that I've done this before. My whole job as a Wrecker boils down to moving fast, either rigging or disarming bombs, and stealing information when it wasn't just waiting to shoot someone. What even makes you think they had a chance to set a device?” he asked, deliberately looking around, optics passing over the gift without pause or hint of recognition.

Prowl sighed. “Very well. That package was not here before the intruder.” He nodded to the gift. “And it is suspiciously wrapped.”

Blurr frowned at the box. “That's a box of Sideswipe's goodies, Prowl.” Still, playing up the part, he shooed Prowl back a little. “Don't block the door in case I need to dash.”

Carefully, ready to legitimately grab the box and run — because nothing else would fool Prowl — Blurr reached out and eased the flimsy from under the corner of the box. He let his shoulders slump, then laughed. “I don't think this is a bomb, boss.” Still smiling, Blurr turned and held the flimsy out to Prowl.

Releasing the dog to go sniff around the yard, tail wagging, Prowl suspiciously took the note. His brow furrowed in a frown that was not quite echoed by the rest of his expression. Blurr knew what the note said — he'd written it, as well as about sixty practice notes — and he saw Prowl's expression turn to faint surprise when he realized this was a request to meet, for a date, at Maccadam's just after opening tonight, signed from Jazz. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Blurr snickered. “Sorry to have read it though.” He tapped just below his optic. “Too fast not to, but— Hey! This is great, right? Weren't you just telling me how sure you were that he wasn't interested in something other than friendship?” Blurr waved a hand at the note and chuckled, praying Ricochet could — gently — beat some sense into Jazz. “This doesn't seem like the thing a friend does.” Reaching out, Blurr clapped a hand to Prowl's shoulder. “I have just enough time to help you polish up if you want?”

Prowl considered his dirt-covered hands and knees where he'd been kneeling in the substrate to pull crystals. “I think I'd like that. I have some cleaning cloths over here.”

Blurr beamed. One down, one to go. “I'm so happy for you!” he all but squealed and snatched up the cloths. “Rinse really quick, and I'll make sure you're spotless for him.”

“Thank you, Blurr.” Prowl herded the dog back into the prefab. “I've been using the shower at the barracks to clean up for work,” he admitted and led Blurr outside. “I just have a camp shower here.” Around back, where Drift had climbed in the window. There was no Drift now though, just a bag of water with a nozzle.

“I have plans for my washroom,” Blurr said with a grin. “What are you putting in yours?” He stepped over close enough to Prowl to dampen one of the cloths and then started on the mech's back, moving quickly but being thorough.

At least it looked like Drift got away clean enough. Blurr was going to hear all about it though, he was sure.

“A jacuzzi,” Prowl replied, scrubbing his front as well. “Something I can come home to and relax in. I'm told my frame is too tense.”

Blurr snorted and traced a finger along an upper seam. “I'd say. I'll have to have a chat with Ricochet. He's not giving it to you good enough if you're still this tense.” He leaned around enough to grin at Prowl's face. “Or should I aim that chat at Jazz now~♪“

“Please don't. And I have no fault in Ricochet's … performance.” Blurr could practically hear the mech blushing. “But there is only so much that can be done about so many years of stress without medical intervention.”

“So, I need to talk to Ratchet then,” Blurr teased, and stepped back to dig around in his subspace. He knew he had some polish in there somewhere.

“Please don't,” Prowl repeated. “I am handling it. Slowly, but I am.” He handed him a small tub of polish from his own subspace and a clean pad. It was one of Arcee’s hand-crocheted scrubbing and polishing cloths, made from acrylic yarn from Earth, rather than the more traditional synthetic chamois. 

“Ah!” Blurr took the polish. “So long as you're looking after yourself. How about we go inside so we can do this without dust blowing around. Or is your new friend the licking type? Where the frag did you get a turbohound from? Was he here yesterday?”

“I've only had him since this morning. I haven't had the chance to call Hound's rescue shelter yet. I … don't know if he likes licking. We should see about that.”

Blurr let Prowl lead the way back inside — just in case — but the turbohound behaved other than some sniffing, and it wasn't long at all before Blurr was passing the woven pad back to Prowl.

“Okay, well, if you're going to enjoy your date, then I better get the bar open.” Blurr flashed a grin. “I'll get a table in the quiet corner set aside for you both.” He gave Prowl a good long look, though, and whistled. “You're not hard to look at, at all, Prowl.”

Prowl's doors lowered shyly. “Thank you.”

Blurr winked and headed for the door. “See you soon!”

The drive back took no time at all, and Blurr pulled up, still dancing on clouds and excited. Everything was going according to plan! He grinned at Drift when he spotted his friend waiting. “Mission accomplished!”

“I told you this was going to end with one of us being chewed on!” Drift hissed back. “I told you. That mutt popped a tire.”

Blurr snickered before he could stop himself, tried to school his expression, and failed only to laugh more. “Primus, if you could see your face.” He stepped in and pecked a kiss to Drift's cheek, almost expecting to get stabbed. “Come on. Let's clean you up quick, and then I'll get you your just desserts.”

“You owe me so many treats for this,” Drift grumbled. He wasn't limping, so it must not be pulling on anything vital, but Blurr knew from experience that driving that way was very uncomfortable. They'd all done it, but it was clear Drift was not happy with his own drive back to the bar.

“All the treats you can eat,” Blurr assured him, linking their arms to drag Drift along. “Just tell me what you want first.” Once he had Drift on a stool, he took the silver thistle from his subspace and set it on the back counter. It was quickly watered, and he set the energon tea to heat. “Oh! Get this,” Blurr said with a laugh. “Prowl wanted to call the bomb squad over the treats. I kind of can't wait to tell Sideswipe that.”

“Well, frag …” Drift put his head down on the counter. “Because of course that's what Prowl would do with a mysterious package. Did you talk him around or is the disposal unit enjoying our gummies?”

Blurr laughed and ducked under the bar to grab a plate of mixed treats for Drift. “No. I played dumb just as well as always, pointed out that the box was of the design Sunstreaker made for Sideswipe's treat business, and handed the flimsy to him.” He stood, placed the plate down, and leaned on his elbow. “I should be insulted that everyone always buys that act so thoroughly, shouldn't I?”

“Probably,” Drift said, subspacing a few of the treats before he started eating.

“Yeah. Well, so long as I can use it, it's good enough, I guess.” Blurr shook out his plating and checked the time. “Anyway, Prowl will be here. Should've seen him. He's all shy and excited. Helped him shine up.” He grabbed and poured the tea for Drift, then set the pot near enough for him to reach for refills. “Hope Ricochet doesn't dent up Jazz too much.”

Blurr figured he would find out soon enough as it was time to open the bar, and mechs were already gathering.

It was busier than last night, though Blurr heard some grumbling at the canned music playing over the sound system; Jazz was a popular feature. He answered the occasional query simply by saying that Jazz had the night off and he'd be back on stage tomorrow.

When Prowl showed up, Blurr made sure he was seated in the reserved booth, a little quiet and out of the way, and brought him the requested spritzer to sip on while he waited.

Where was Jazz? Blurr had expected him to be here by now!

As if the thought summoned them, the door opened and in came Jazz and Ricochet. He took in the vicious grin on Ricochet's face and the glare Jazz shot his captor. Yes, captor, because Blurr also recognized the way Jazz's arm was twisted behind his back as Ricochet marched him through the crowd and to the table with Prowl. Wasn't Ricochet supposed to  _ convince _ Jazz to come to his date!?!

Apparently not. When Blurr drifted closer so he could see and hear the confrontation a bit better, he could see a crack in Ricochet's visor, and the scores on his collar faring looked like he'd been raked deeply with his own claws; Jazz was limping. Frag. Jazz wasn't going to admit anything if he'd been—

Ricochet forced Jazz to sit in the booth across from Prowl, who had stood, doors flaring in mild alarm. “Say it,” the 'Con demanded.

Jazz looked mulish …. “Ow!” … until Ricochet flicked one of his claws across his sensor horn. “Fine! Prowl I …” he stopped.

“Fragging Primus, Jazz! Just frelling say it!”

“I am! I will! I—” he turned to Prowl, “I … I love you.” 

“Good boy,” Ricochet crowed condescendingly. “Now you two have fun with your date.” Only then did he release Jazz, grin and wave at a flummoxed Prowl, and retreat, weaving his way through the crowd to the bar.

Blurr waited at the end of the bar for Ricochet, torn between which spectacle he wanted to watch more: Ricochet walking toward him, looking smug and pleased with himself and oh so good, or the way Prowl's surprise eased into the cutest shy little smile ever.

Prowl and Jazz won out. They shyly reached out to hold each others’ hand across the table. Jazz was huddled a little, probably in embarrassment, and Prowl leaned forward. His doorwings tilted into an encouraging angle that Blurr had never seen on Prowl before and only recognized because Bluestreak was more demonstrative.

“So how long do we have before you die?” Blurr asked as Ricochet reached the bar, his optics still on the couple in the booth. They were both talking animatedly now, though the crowd was too loud to hear any of it. Blurr didn't bother trying to read their lips. That was too close to eavesdropping for his tastes in this situation.

Ricochet scoffed. “He wouldn’t dare. My usual with a shot of filtered highgrade.”

Blurr arched an optic ridge but mixed the usual — energon with a packet of racer’s recovery mix — tossed in a shot of the highgrade, then grabbed the ethyl to make it slushy. He plopped a spoon in, and then Blurr leaned over the bar as he pushed the glass closer to Ricochet. “I want details,” he purred. “More I know, the more grateful I can be.”

“You just want to be a giant busybody.” Ricochet snickered as he sipped his health-highgrade-slushy. “You really want a blow by blow of us duking it out?”

“Not blow by blow,” Blurr replied, glancing back at Prowl and Jazz, then around the bar, but it looked like everyone was content for the moment. There were some other mechs stealing peeks at the new couple too, though. He looked back at Ricochet. “What I want to know is how you got away with dragging him in here like that. I know you're a badaft and all, but that  _ is _ Jazz.” Honestly, Blurr figured this was proof Jazz had wanted to come to confess to Prowl, or Ricochet never would have won that fight.

“You have very little faith in me,” Ricochet teased back.

Blurr snorted. “No. But I've seen Jazz move. More importantly, I've  _ not _ seen him move and then seen the aftermath. So how the frag did you manage to drag his aft in here with just a cracked visor and a few scratches?”

Ricochet preened. “How about I tell you once you’re all closed up?”

“Perfect,” Blurr said and straightened.

As he served, plenty of mechs asked variants of “Is that Prowl and Jazz on a date?!”, and Blurr was able to grin and nod. The best part was that the two mechs in question left well before last call. Everyone had the forethought to wait until after the door shut behind them before breaking into cheers and applause.

“Told you everyone knew,” Blurr said, breezing past Ricochet on the way to deliver more drinks.

Once Prowl and Jazz left, it felt like the rest of the night dragged on, at least to Blurr, but finally, he was able to close up. He grabbed himself a drink and plopped onto the stool next to Ricochet, feeling the buzz and hum of a busy night. Mission accomplished, with only a little bit of chewing, and now he could be happy for his friends  _ and _ have Ricochet (mostly) to himself.

“Spill,” Blurr said with a grin.

“Went by Pacer for a lot of the war,” Ricochet said slowly. “Also Marshal. Few more things. Even Meister, once or twice. Changed my name along with most of the lower-ranked Decepticon spec ops at the end of the war to Ricochet. Mechs think I’m a ‘Con ‘cause of it. Took the chance to blend in with them. No one knows anyone by sight in that crowd, just name.” And with everyone changing their names, that meant no one knew anyone at all. They’d be relying on codewords and stuff, Blurr figured. Ricochet smirked. “That’s my current cover: keep an optic on the other ‘Cons, make sure the Rage Cage stays a fighter-owned co-op, instead of sliding into a slave-owning hellhole. Occasionally I run other errands for my handler. Ain’t one of Soundwave’s though.”

Blurr blinked. “You're an Autobot?” That was... entirely unexpected. And Jazz was a lying liar who lied, but that was nothing new. “So what's your real name? Or does it matter?”

“My name’s Ricochet. Haven’t used it for a few million years, but it’s definitely my name.”

“Okay.” Blurr nodded to himself then shook it off. Spec ops! “Okay, so you were one of Jazz's. That doesn't mean he won't sneak into my house, and I'll wake up with you dead beside me. Which will be Prowl's revenge, because I'm sure he's worked out that I forged that note.” Blurr had seen the flimsy being spoken over.

“Fun times.” Ricochet petted Blurr’s arm. The lunatic was honestly looking forward to it, wasn’t he? “But no. I can’t tell you everything I did, but Jazz wouldn’t kill me over something like this.” And the paint nanites on his hand and arm shifted to match Jazz’s colors.

Blurr's jaw dropped. “You can color shift!” he whispered in shock. Primus, metachrosis would make Ricochet at least as valuable a spy as Mirage and his invisibility. “Alright. He won't kill you, but when he comes to kick your aft, I'll help you buff out the claw marks.” Blurr grinned and leaned over to kiss Ricochet's cheek. “You done good. Thank you!”

Ricochet preened. “Knew he was moping over something. More than happy not to have to deal with it anymore. And Prowl … he implied to me  _ he _ was moping over an ex! Can you believe that?”

“Told you. They're idiots in love,” Blurr said and knocked back the rest of his energon. He didn't feel like cleaning up but stood to do it anyway. “Give me a little to get done in here and we can go back to my place.”

“Sure.”

Blurr hesitated but turned toward Ricochet. “I have a question, and your answer changes nothing between us, but I am curious.”

“Shoot,” he said, amused at his own smartaftery.

“Knowing neither of us are interested in monogamy,” Blurr began, carefully measuring each word, “and knowing that at least I would never require it, would you ever consider something more … permanent between us?”  _ Can I fall in love with you? _ he wanted to ask, but Blurr was afraid that would send Ricochet running. “Not right away obviously, it's only been a few weeks, but we match up well enough in the berth that the idea's crossed my mind.” And then Ricochet had to go and be extra caring and protective of Blurr just that morning.

“Dunno. Maybe.” Ricochet stroked Blurr soothingly. “Never fallen in love before, but now that— nevermind. Things've changed. Suppose it's possible.”

Blurr blinked, shocked that Ricochet would say  _ it _ — the  _ L-word _ — out loud. “Okay.” He smiled and leaned in to kiss Ricochet. “Like I said, nothing changes. But I like you, and you're good to me— for me, I think. But I don't want to cross a line that you're not comfortable with.”

“We'll see what happens, yeah?” Ricochet kissed him gently, and Blurr felt him caress his neck, leaving something behind. “Right now, though, you're mine.”

Blurr lifted a hand to touch the slight weight now resting around his neck. “Is this …?” He felt along the light chain and wished he had a mirror to look in and see it.

“Rules?” Blurr asked in a breathless voice.

“I'll take it off if you want me to, but you don't. Don't care if you have other hookups in it. And you can wear it as much as you want. Anytime. All the time.” Ricochet tapped what seemed to be a tiny tag offset from the main lock. “Say's 'Property of Ricochet' on it, but tiny enough that you can deck anyone reading it. Subtle otherwise. Here.” Rico produced a small, handheld mirror and handed it to Blurr.

Spark pulsing hard, Blurr took the mirror and angled it to admire his new “collar”. It looked like a spark pendant on a chain; he could barely see the locking mechanism or hinge where it opened. Ricochet was right, it was very subtle and pretty. “I love it,” he whispered, fingers tracing the lock that didn't look the least like a lock. “I'll murder anyone who touches it.” Blurr looked up from the mirror and met Ricochet's visor head-on. “Thank you,” he said with feeling.

“Now weren't you going home so I could break in?”

Blurr hummed, let his optics shut, and shared the air between them so he could savor the moment. Cleaning could and  _ would _ wait for the morning after all. “To fall asleep, safe and snuggly in my berth all alone, with no thoughts to the notion that some lusty intruder will sneak in and ravish me.” He opened his optics and grinned. “You have to get out of my bar first. Unless some lusty intruder broke into my back room to ravish me over the nearest counter.”

“You—  _ bed,”  _ Ricochet growled.

“Lock up,” Blurr said, and dashed out the back.

.

.

.

End

**Author's Note:**

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